


I'd Be the Choiceless Hope

by lesdemonium (winnerstick)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ella Enchanted Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Curse of Obedience, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Canon Compliant, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnerstick/pseuds/lesdemonium
Summary: “Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier's mother with Jaskier's obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the "gift" became more of a curse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 974
Kudos: 2051





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: hey i love the movie ella enchanted  
> me: what if i made it even worse?
> 
> this fic is completely written, so no worries about an unfinished fic. i'm thinking i'll post a new chapter every other day to make sure i get each chapter appropriately edited!
> 
> as a general warning, this fic _does_ deal with non-con/dub-con elements. there is never any explicit non-con (it's either implied or has a fade to black), and all intimate interactions between jaskier & geralt are completely consensual.
> 
> _  
> _tw for this chapter: mentions of child abuse, heavily implied non-con w/ fade to black, implied (emotionally/sexually) abusive relationship.__  
> 

Julian had always been a willful child. He supposed he hadn’t had much of a choice--it was either be willful, or lose himself completely. Obedience had been thrust upon him far too early for him to have truly grown into his own person, so it was possible that had it not been for the “gift” he would have been more docile. But a wayward “gift” to his mother, bestowed upon by a fae that was either too short-sighted to see the consequences or too apathetic and annoyed to care, had shaped his life irreversibly. 

His mother didn’t like to tell the story. She had been powerless against it and it had happened too fast for her to take any action. Julian had been a colicky baby, crying all hours of the day and night, and his parents were exhausted. Maybe the fae hadn’t been evil, exactly, but he had been vexed enough by Julian’s constant screaming to slip into the backyard. His mother had been so caught up with the blessed silence as Julian finally slept that she hadn’t noticed the fae until he was looming over Julian’s cradle.

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

Julian began to cry then, the touch waking him. Julian knew it was impossible, but he could almost remember the way the fae’s face had contorted in anger. His beautiful features melted into something ugly, cruel, as he leaned in even closer.

“Be quiet,” the fae told Julian, and his cries stopped. “Sleep.” His eyes closed.

The fae stood up again and bowed to his mother, though her horrified look had given him pause. “You will thank me, in time,” the fae said, then disappeared back to his own home.

Julian grew. At first, he did not realize that things were  _ different _ for him. He couldn’t remember when he noticed that his mother spoke carefully to him, considering her words, while his father did not. When he was young, he thought everyone did exactly what was bidden of them, the moment it was requested. Surely every child did what was commanded with no hesitation; that was just the power of adults. 

It had made him clever, though. Even if he didn’t know what was going on, why sometimes his body moved of its own accord, Julian had quickly learned how to find himself in the gray areas. He latched onto vague statements with far more insolent insistence than most young children his age would have, much to his father’s fury. When the elder Pankratz told him to sit down and shut up, Julian obeyed, but rather than sitting in his seat and staying silent, he’d land himself down on the floor at his father’s feet, and start humming. Often his father disciplined Julian, quite brutally, for causing his father to trip, but still Julian found pride in himself.

“You are a willful, stubborn boy,” his father declared time and time again. Julian did not understand why having a mind of his own was something worthy of punishment, but Julian supposed his father would always look at him and see something that needed straightening out. “You are unfit of your title and a disappointment to this family.”

His father did not know the boon he had been given, and as such did not take full advantage. It was a small mercy Julian’s mother had granted him.

HIs mother didn’t tell Julian until he was nine. She probably never would have told him, if she could help it. However, after a tutor had unwittingly made Julian practice until he had ruined his favorite lute with his own blood, she must have decided that her weeping son should at least know  _ why _ he had been unable to stop.

“I don’t understand,” Julian said, and even in his memory, he sounded unbelievably small. “Can’t we fix this? Ask the faery to take it back?”

She shook her head, and Julian felt, for the first time, a pit of dread settle in his stomach. Somehow, he knew that feeling would stay with him. She had made some excuse, something about not knowing where to find the fae, not wanting to anger it for being ungrateful for Julian’s “gift,” but even then Julian knew the truth. She was afraid. Julian had managed to be an insolent child, even with his curse. How much worse would he be if he had true free will?

To his mother’s credit, she did her best to retain his freedom, at first. Every once in a while, though, she slipped. And every so often, Julian caught the glint in her eyes as she “slipped.” The slips became more and more frequent as Julian grew older.

By the time he was a teenager, he had truly mastered his willfulness. Even his mother had difficulty finding ways to effectively command him, though any attempts at holding herself back were a thing of the past. She would first try gently to guide him into whatever she wanted. When he refused, in his own ways, her lips would purse, and more and more frequently she took to flat-out ordering him. If she saw the fury in his eyes, she did not comment on it. She only offered a prim “Thank you, Julian,” as he acquiesced. He recognized the warning for what it was, but rarely took heed.

Julian’s tutors lavished compliments upon the family for Julian’s hard work and the ruthlessness he used to tackle even the most complicated of tasks. Julian found a way to have pride in this; he did enjoy his music lessons, at least. His other lessons were useful, he supposed. History made ballads rich, though all he had written felt flat. Mathematics, etiquette, politics--all were useful, in their ways.

The nobility that visited the family for balls, banquets, and as house-guests praised his manners and his eagerness to please, and did not notice (or simply didn’t care about) the way Julian’s teeth clenched as he bit out a “Yes, right away,” at their every request. He was a lapdog, and nothing more. Julian caught the pride in his parents eyes as they, too, recognized this.

He approached manhood with a gracefulness unparalleled in other aspects of his life. Before long Julian turned the heads of the lords and ladies around him, and it didn’t take much longer for his own head to be turned in their direction. In some ways, his curse wasn’t horrible. In some ways, it could be used to his advantage.

Julian quickly gained a reputation. His partners found his obedience thrilling and arousing. Julian had become an expert in reading people, and used this gift to his advantage. He left his partners satisfied and wanting, though he rarely came back for more. Julian fell hard and fast for everyone he met, but he knew there was no one he could _keep_. Sooner or later, someone stumbled upon his “gift” and while they never understood it for what it was, they always mistook his obedience for wanting. After all, if he didn’t want to do what they ordered, couldn’t he just say no? They didn’t know the power in their hands _._

He learned, quickly, to direct his affections on young women, who were often meeker, less likely to order him about in bed, and delighted at the simplest demonstration of his obedience. Women in power, however, had to be considered carefully. Men in power were worse. Julian often had to steer clear of the men at his parents banquets that gazed at him hungrily. Unluckily, this often steered him in the direction of noble ladies, thrilled at having a young man half their age in their bed, and accustomed to barking out orders to those around them. 

Some people were just dangerous. On some of his more poetic days, he described the look in their eyes as  _ red _ . Red was dangerous, red was consuming, red was hungry. Red was something he steered clear of, as much as he could. It didn’t matter if they knew, they never truly did, but those laced with red always found it. Their keen eyes sought out anything they could exploit, and Julian was a delicacy to their desire.

Julian was young, far too young, when he took his leave of Lettenhove.

Julian didn’t tell anyone he was leaving. He packed up his things one day and he left for Oxenfurt, intent on becoming a bard. Asking his parents would have been a waste of time; they would have said no, his mother might have even ordered him to stay in Lettenhove. That wasn’t a chance Julian was willing to take. He found, in his life in particular, it was often best to forgo asking permission at all. If no one knew his desires, they couldn’t take them away from him.

It was in Oxenfurt that he reinvented himself.

“What is your name?” they had asked him as he enrolled, and Julian hesitated.

“Jaskier,” he answered, drawing from a pet name a lover had called him, a year or so prior. Though everyone he told raised an eyebrow at the name, no one questioned him. He couldn’t completely leave behind Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, as that name and title was what had admitted him to Oxenfurt’s university in the first place. But there was power in a name.

For a time, it even worked to throw off the curse.

“Jaskier, demonstrate your scales,” a professor told him, and though Jaskier rose to play, he was  _ delighted _ to discover that it was of his own volition. Nothing compelled him, he didn’t have to fight the urge to shoot straight up at the order. He was shaking with excitement, though his years of practicing beyond the point of pain meant his scales were flawless, as always.

He was drunk with his own freedom, for a time. It didn’t last. Soon, Jaskier was just as effective as Julian in gaining his compliance. It was worth it, though, for the taste of freedom he had. Jaskier allowed him to create a new life, one far away from the one he had left behind. The pit of dread in his stomach shrunk, and soon Jaskier almost felt  _ happiness _ .

He found Valdo in his classes. Jaskier was so caught up in his freedom, he forgot that he didn’t have the luxury of carelessness. He missed the red. This time, it wasn’t in Valdo’s eyes, which were soft, lazy things, that trailed over Jaskier like he had all the time in the world. Valdo watched Jaskier as if he were a piece of art; something to examine and interpret and find a deeper meaning in. Jaskier had spent so much time being lonely, he basked in the attention, and did not recognize it for what it truly was: jealousy.

Jaskier impressed the professors. He was on his way to renown, rising above even Valdo, who had been the jewel of Oxenfurt for so long. Jaskier was  _ flattered _ when Valdo deigned to give Jaskier his attentions. He was foolish to believe they did not come at a price.

His words were sweet as the honeyed wine he supplied Jaskier with as they moved their conversation first to a tavern, and then to Valdo’s own apartment. Jaskier found himself in Valdo’s bed willingly. They didn’t put words to their attachment, but everyone knew that Jaskier was Valdo’s. 

The red was in his hands. The way he clutched Jaskier tightly enough to leave behind marks, like he wanted Jaskier to stay, right there, right where Valdo wanted him. The way Valdo touched him left Jaskier feeling both empty and wanting, in a way he couldn’t put to words, though he tried, desperately, to put it into a melody. Still, Jaskier stayed. He wanted to be wanted, he wanted to be loved, and Valdo could almost give that to him, he was  _ sure _ of it.

“My songbird,” Valdo called him, and Jaskier should have known from the way his blood ran cold.

The day he realized what was  _ wrong _ was unremarkable. 

“Jaskier,” Valdo said from the bed. 

Jaskier tilted his head, letting Valdo know he was paying attention, but he didn’t move from his desk. He was close, so close, to finishing this song. It wasn’t great, he knew that, but it was something. It was a start. One day he would have grand adventures, and these trite and somewhat juvenile love songs he wrote for Valdo (or anyone else that struck his fancy) would be a thing of the past.

“Jaskier, look at me,” Valdo insisted, sounding impatient.

Jaskier immediately turned. Usually, he steeled himself against outright commands, even simple ones like that. Most people didn’t notice the tension he held in his body as he resisted, but the moment of hesitation made it seem as if he was doing it of his own volition. He raised his eyebrow at Valdo.

“Come to bed.”

Jaskier stood, abandoning his work, and tried not to let the disappointment read on his face as he joined Valdo. There was something in Valdo’s look, but Jaskier couldn’t tell yet what it was. Nevertheless, the pit in his stomach made itself known.

“Take off your shirt.” His voice was disinterested, as if getting Jaskier out of his clothes was only a secondary goal. 

“Someone’s feeling bossy,” Jaskier teased, trying to bring levity back to himself. He smirked, but Valdo’s lips did not quirk back.

“You are  _ delightfully _ obedient, aren’t you?” Valdo murmured as Jaskier’s chemise fell to the floor. “Would you do anything I asked? Tell me the truth.”

Jaskier paused. “No,” he answered, and it was only half a lie. He wouldn’t do anything Valdo  _ asked _ . He would do anything Valdo  _ commanded _ .

Valdo’s eyebrows raised, and he scoffed. “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say no before. You’re so quick to follow directions. You stand when you’re told, you parrot things back beautifully, you even handed that spoiled first year your precious lute the moment he asked it of you.” He paused, considering Jaskier’s face. Jaskier was no longer smiling. Instead, he furrowed his eyebrows, trying to determine where this was going. “I’ve been watching you. You take orders like no one I’ve ever met, despite how contrary you are otherwise. Tell me, do you enjoy being ordered about?”

“No.” The word flew out of him.

“And yet you do it.” He paused again, and Jaskier’s apprehension grew. “Touch your nose.”

Jaskier tried to resist, he really did. But it was such a simple command, and he was so unprepared for it, that he lost control after only a second. Valdo looked delighted.

“That’s very interesting. Kiss me.”

It went on like this for over an hour. Jaskier tried to resist, but there really was only so much he could do when he was faced with short, direct commands. Resisting was exhausting and painful, and made his body ache as if he had performed some laborious task. So he submitted. Let Valdo order him around like he was a show pony, and each time Valdo looked more and more delighted. Jaskier felt more and more hollow.

“You’re such a good little songbird, aren’t you?” Valdo asked when they were finished, naked and panting beside each other. Jaskier said nothing, merely looked at him and wondered how he could have missed the red. Valdo was saturated in it. “How peculiar. You have no choice, do you? Why?”

Jaskier sighed. There was no point in trying to deny it. Valdo had spent the last hour becoming intimately acquainted with Jaskier’s obedience. He stood and dressed, wanting desperately to get away, to get out, to get safe.

“A curse from a faery,” Jaskier answered, his voice tight. 

Valdo chuckled. “Or a  _ gift _ .”

It was a small mercy that Valdo let him leave then, apparently satisfied with what he had extracted from Jaskier. Jaskier refused to let himself break, refused to let even a single tear fall, until he had safely made it inside his own room. With the door a heavy, solid, safe thing behind him, he sunk to the floor and wept.

Jaskier survived Valdo. He still warmed Valdo’s bed, trying not to anger the man when Jaskier was so, so close to getting out of Oxenfurt, and away from Valdo. 

Graduation was quickly approaching when Jaskier received word from Lettenhove. His parents, not wanting to make a scene and maybe more than a bit happy to have Jaskier out of their hair, had let him continue on at Oxenfurt. In all his years there, they did not contact him once, though they doubtless knew of his whereabouts. This letter confirmed his suspicions. They knew, they simply didn’t want to do anything about it, and that was just fine by Jaskier.

His mother was dying. The letter he got from his father was terse, and directly to the point. No flowery language, no questions after Jaskier’s wellbeing. Only the information that his mother had fallen ill and their healers were unable to do anything more for her except ease her pain. He did not suppose she would last longer than a fortnight.

The surprise was the parchment from his mother. It had only a single word on it:  _ Lazuli _ .

Jaskier did not dare to hope. A name only gave him so much, if he was even correct in his assumption that this was the fae that had cursed him. He was a spoiled viscount of Lettenhove, a noble whose greatest achievements amounted, largely, to his skill with his instruments and, perhaps, his charm and wit. He couldn’t begin to know how to go about finding a fae and, once found, how to get Lazuli to remove his curse.

Still, he couldn’t help the way he warmed with hope. A name was a direction. A name was a goal, eventually.

He spared a tear for his mother, and sent a very polite, if somewhat detached, letter home. He received word of her death scarcely a week later, and he was not invited home for the funeral. It was for the best. Jaskier had studies to complete, and little intention of returning to Lettenhove without a great deal more preparation.

The hope lifted him through finishing his classes, gave him the strength to survive Valdo, and lit a fire inside him. He had always wanted to travel and have grand adventures--now, those travels would have a purpose. He would learn all he could to find Lazuli and break his curse.

When Valdo commanded him to turn down an offer to a noble's court, Jaskier did not weep. He merely packed his belongings (or, what he could carry, at least) and took his leave of Oxenfurt. As he took to the road again he felt light, airy. He was free again, and though he knew all too well that this was a fleeting feeling, there was no point in sullying the moment by being realistic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luckily this chapter is pretty devoid of any need for tw!

Life on the road was harder than Jaskier expected. He was talented, that was for sure, and he often could make a fair bit of coin if he played the works of other bards. But that wasn’t what Jaskier wanted. He wanted to make a name for himself with his own work, and so he kept trying. He tried to write, he tried to perform, he tried to eek some sort of feeling and poetry out of his history lessons and his own personal experiences. They were lacking. He almost didn’t blame his audiences for throwing food at him, though it was still quite  _ rude _ . At least he got a meal out of it, usually.

When he saw the witcher in the corner in Posada, Jaskier hadn’t approached him thinking he was a gift from destiny. In fact, he had only one thing on the mind, and he hoped to have it inside him in  _ some _ capacity by the end of the day.

That didn’t happen, but still he followed Geralt. He probably reeked of desperation of two different kinds: he still was incredibly interested in proving his theory that the witcher made more noise in fits of passion than in general conversation, but now he also needed his expertise. If anyone would know about the fae, it was a witcher. Jaskier needed Geralt, more than he would have liked to admit.

If nothing else, he was a particularly effective muse. Jaskier had never written something so quickly as he had “Toss A Coin” and never had he gotten something with such a good reception. Even Geralt warmed to the song eventually, in his way. Not the song itself, Jaskier was sure, but what the song did for him. 

With Geralt, there was a certain sort of freedom. Most of his commands Jaskier was happy for. He had never lived on the road quite as much as he did now, and Geralt telling him what needed to be done made things easier on Jaskier. Jaskier’s compliance also made him appear more helpful than he actually was. Any other orders Geralt had for him were easily satisfied.

“Go away,” Geralt said, and Jaskier stumbled a few wayward steps away from the witcher.

“Shut up,” Geralt said, in exasperation. Jaskier’s mouth closed and he hummed loudly until Geralt was forced to bark out, “Stop!”

The vague orders, Jaskier had learned, largely went away on their own. The less specific the better, and luckily they didn’t seem to build on each other too much, unless the orders were specific and goal-oriented. His mother had gotten her way by saying “Do not speak for the entire night.” “Shut up,” seemed to only last until another order was given.

Traveling with a witcher also afforded Jaskier a certain amount of protection from others. It was an easy way to stay away from people, like the fur trader in the red coat who had stared at Jaskier as if the bard was a decoration he’d like to add to his collection. When Jaskier was with Geralt, people stayed away, or if they didn’t, Geralt was there to prevent anyone from stealing Jaskier away.

Not that Geralt realized that was what he was doing. Jaskier was sure that, on some level, if the witcher had been at all aware, he would have allowed the stealing. He let Jaskier stay, nonetheless, and though life with a witcher took adjusting to, Jaskier was up for it.

“This is where we part, bard,” Geralt said, time and time again.

“So you can go fight a striga without me again? Hardly, Geralt,” Jaskier scoffed. “I had to make up half the details, then deal with you bemoaning me for being  _ incorrect _ on the details, only for you to then refuse to  _ correct me _ . It’s far easier for everyone if I’m just there.”

“You weren’t going to come with me for the striga, Jaskier. You would have died.” Geralt’s voice was flat, resigned, but he allowed Jaskier to continue following him out of the town.

Jaskier waved a dismissive hand. “Death is merely an unfortunate side effect.” He glanced up at Geralt, only to see a look almost as powerful as Geralt’s igni in burning him on the spot. “Oh,  _ alright _ . But a rotfiend is hardly the same as a striga. Besides, taking one out does not involve fighting it until dawn inside a castle. There are a great many more places for me to watch from a distance. A  _ safe _ distance. And, this way, you won’t have to hurt yourself with your attempts to be verbose.”

Geralt seemed satisfied by this answer, if his grunt was anything to go off of. Considering how much time Jaskier had spent around Geralt, he supposed the grunt was quite a bit to go off of. He had commanded Jaskier to stay in town until he returned before, but this time he allowed Jaskier to continue along beside him and Roach.

The rotfiends--it turned out there was a pack of them--were disgusting. Jaskier was pretty sure he would have a few stanzas on the smell  _ alone _ . But Geralt was incredible. Geralt always had such a dancing quality to his fighting, and more than once Jaskier had distracted himself on this detail alone. So far, he hadn’t truly been able to capture just how graceful the man was in his songs, but he was pretty sure no one would believe it anyway. Usually people did not look at a great beast of a man like Geralt and think “graceful,” no matter how foolish Jaskier thought they were for it. 

Then again, they also didn’t look at Geralt and see “beautiful” which was truly a travesty in and of itself. While Jaskier had initially hitched himself to the witcher’s wagon for selfish reasons, he had to admit that they were no longer the reason he was here. Sure, he still would do just about anything to have Geralt pin him to the ground and have his way with him. And, sure, eventually he was still planning on finding a way to casually bring up his interest in the fae. He had to do it without alerting Geralt to his true motivations, which was tricky, and the main reason it hadn’t come up yet in the now four years he had been acquainted with the witcher. Now, though,  _ now _ he was here because he just… wanted to be. Geralt was brave and noble and a true friend, even if he kept Jaskier at an arm’s length. He was skilled in battle in a way that was amazing to watch, and a solid, safe person to be around. 

When Jaskier looked at Geralt, he saw amber: warm, bright, and beautiful. Secure in a way he had never felt before. With Geralt, he could reach out and embrace danger, and know that he would not be harmed. Even his monsters, like the rotfiends, had a simplicity to them that Jaskier’s monsters never did.

Hours later, when they had found their way back to town to collect their coin, and made it into a small, warm room, Jaskier still could only see amber. He hadn’t wanted to perform, beyond an almost half-hearted display of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” to prompt the villagers into fair payment. Jaskier pretended it was because he was trying to compose a new song, but he knew it was truly because he wanted to keep feeling amber. Performing meant oddly shouted-out commands. Jaskier wasn’t in the mood to be clever.

Jaskier perched upon his bed as Geralt worked, reorganizing the saddlebags for probably the hundredth time. He always insisted they were off-balance, and Jaskier had learned long-ago not to interrupt Geralt in his fiddling. Surly witchers were a pain to deal with. Jaskier pretended to be involved in his composing, but he turned just enough to sneak furtive glances Geralt’s way.

“Geralt,” Jaskier finally said, dutifully keeping his voice even.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement. He didn’t pause his work or look up, but Jaskier didn’t expect him to. Didn’t want him to, really. This would be easier to do if Jaskier pretended that this was an idle conversation.

“You’ve met a great many creatures in your time,” Jaskier began. Geralt snorted. “Any particularly interesting ones?”

“Don’t you already have material for a new song? Rotfiends not poetic enough for you?”

Jaskier feigned affront, a hand to his chest as he shot Geralt a scandalized look. “A true artist, as I am, can turn even the most  _ disgusting _ of creatures into inspiration. Though I will have my work cut out for me to make my audiences trip over themselves in interest, rather than lose their suppers at the thought of the  _ smell _ .” Jaskier scrunched up his nose, then continued on. “This is for curiosity’s sake. I am a seeker of knowledge, Geralt. I wish to know more of the creatures in the world. Perhaps a particular sort of creature. One that finds itself woefully lacking in printed information, but what is there paints a very peculiar--”

“Speak plainly, bard.”

Jaskier huffed. If he wanted to, he could get around that one, but why bother when the curse was giving him an out to get direct information? “Have you come across fae?”

Geralt paused for a moment. “Once or twice.”

“What were they like?” Jaskier’s heart was beating fast, and he tried everything he could to slow his rate down. He forced his breaths to slow, hoping that soon his anxious heart would get the hint and stop giving away all his secrets to the witcher’s enhanced hearing.

“Tricky,” Geralt answered with a hum. 

Jaskier shot him an exasperated look. Geralt was still looking at his pack, but the small smile on his face told Jaskier that he was being taciturn on  _ purpose _ . Jaskier did not appreciate it.

“Geralt, for once could I get some information out of you without pulling your teeth? Honestly, for someone who has benefited so much from me singing your deeds and praises, you sure are unwilling to offer me  _ any _ information.”

“I thought this was curiosity, not material?”

Jaskier huffed again, finally dropping the notebook in front of him onto his bed. “It  _ is _ , but that was more of a blanket statement. It’s not like I can go and find a book on the fae, that’s guaranteed to be chock full of the misinformation you so  _ loathe _ . So, since you have a wealth of information on the monsters of this region, why don’t you bend my ear with your expertise for once?”

Geralt responded with a huffy laugh. “They’re not  _ monsters _ , exactly. Most witchers won’t take contracts on fae. They’re tricky, they’re vain, and they’re not to be messed with. But they’ll largely leave humans alone as long as they don’t insult them,” he answered with a shrug. “Both times I got mixed up with a faery, I narrowly got away.”

“How would you go about finding one? Any one, or a particular one? Or… or a court, or--” Jaskier cut himself off. To go further down this direction would likely add too much suspicion. The searching, suspicious look Geralt gave Jaskier confirmed this suspicion.

“If you’re smart, you don’t.”

“But it can be done?”

Geralt sighed. He stood, putting away the bags he must have finally been satisfied with. “To find a particular one, you would have to find the court they belong to. Unless you just happened to get lucky--or unlucky--enough to stumble upon them. But the court would know where its subjects are.” Geralt began to undress then, and had it been any other conversation, Jaskier was sure this would have distracted him. Even after all this time, it was hard  _ not _ to get distracted by a bare-chested Geralt, covered in hair that Jaskier just longed to run his fingers over. This conversation was too important, though, and his dedication to making it seem  _ unimportant _ even moreso.

“And how would you find the court?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, then returned to his bed. “Fae tend not to venture too far away from their own forests, unless for particular business. If someone was looking for a particular fae they had met before, likely they would find it near where they met the fae in the first place. Then you just… look for the entrance. Humans usually stumble upon the entrance on accident. You can track it with magic. It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible.” He paused, then shrugged again. “I can’t say I know the specifics beyond that. Haven’t tried it. Like I said, if you’re smart, you don’t.”

Ah. So that meant a return to Lettenhove. That, Jaskier was not excited about, not in the least. But if he wanted to find Lazuli, he had little choice. For now, though, he could put this off. He felt far from ready to face the fae that cursed him, much less an entire fae  _ court _ . 

Jaskier only realized he had been too quiet, too thoughtful for too long when he finally looked up to see Geralt staring back at him strangely. His eyebrows were furrowed and he leaned forward, and Jaskier was pretty sure he had never studied Jaskier’s face that diligently. Jaskier tried to laugh and make a joke to throw Geralt off, but Geralt cut him off.

“Why are you asking, Jaskier? You aren’t going to try to find a Seelie court, are you?” Geralt asked. His voice held no humor. Honestly, he sounded almost  _ concerned _ , and wasn’t that just touching?

“Geralt, come on, I told you, I’m just trying to--”

“Tell me the truth, Jaskier.”

Bollocks. Well, Jaskier had gotten around this one before, he could do it now. People never seemed to specify  _ which _ truth they wanted. “You’re very knowledgeable, Geralt. It’s actually quite impressive to me. All my years of private tutors and my time at Oxenfurt, and I still think you could fill far more books with your knowledge than I could with mine. Then again, you’ve had quite a bit more time to gain that knowledge than I have, so it only seems fitting that you--”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighed. “I have no plans to go find a Seelie court, Geralt. I believe you that it’s dangerous.” He had already fulfilled the restrictions of the curse with his previous truth, but even this wasn’t a lie. He didn’t have plans to find the court--yet.

Geralt sat back, satisfied. He nodded, then laid down on the bed and rolled over. Tonight, he would probably actually sleep. The fight with the rotfiends, though Geralt would not admit it, had worn him out, which was why Jaskier had insisted on renting a room rather than setting up camp. Geralt didn’t sleep well on the road, and rarely slept well in an inn, but he seemed to do marginally better in an inn on nights when Jaskier stayed with him, rather than finding another bed to warm.

Jaskier was pretty sure he was not going to sleep even a moment. Not while this new information turned over and over in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no tw this time but this is where it gets its explicit rating (all consensual, no worries). sorry if you're not into smut, it _is_ fairly plot heavy so i think you'd have a hard time skipping this chapter.

Being away from Geralt was harder than Jaskier ever anticipated. The safety, of course, was hard to replicate. Jaskier found his life was far easier when people stayed far away from him, though he did try his hardest to change the people’s tune on Geralt so that would happen  _ less often _ . Let it be known that Jaskier was not a selfish friend--he truly tried to remedy Geralt’s reputation, even though there were many times that the witcher and any company he kept being completely unapproachable would have been exceedingly helpful to Jaskier. While Jaskier craved it, Geralt didn’t deserve it.

Truly, though, being away from Geralt was excruciating because Jaskier  _ missed him _ . 

It hit him as he was passing through Posada. He didn’t often make the return to Posada--it was kind of a shithole and even as he had started writing his  _ amazing _ ballads, the crowds simply were not up to Jaskier’s standards. He figured it had been a while since he graced the  _ lovely _ town with his skill, though, and so he had tried again to see if the crowds were more amiable. They were not. But, as he had already made it there and didn’t much feel like camping or traveling alone at night, Jaskier had gotten a room.

He and Geralt had parted ways months earlier, as Geralt went to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Even if Jaskier was not in much of an  _ admitting _ mood, he had to confess that he was absently looking for Geralt. It was spring, surely Geralt would have left the keep, or was preparing to disembark. Jaskier wasn’t exactly sure where Kaer Morhen was or the route Geralt took to leave, but he reasoned that Posada had to be at least a  _ decent _ guess.

Jaskier wanted to claim that he was absently searching for the witcher due to the protection he offered. Though he lied to everyone else, Jaskier did not much enjoy lying to himself. He was actively searching for the witcher because the past few months without him had been long and terrible and though Geralt had never been much for conversation, he was amazing for company. Also, Geralt’s particular brand of humor had been washing off on Jaskier and  _ apparently _ it only seemed to work for persons who were large and brooding and vaguely terrifying.

Geralt was not in Posada, nor was he in Vengerberg, Aldersberg, or Rivia, but he  _ was _ in Carreras. How Geralt beat him was anyone’s guess, but Jaskier found he was quite delighted to have found his witcher again.

“Geralt! Long time. I trust your winter was delightful. Full of witchery-like grunts and grimaces. I wonder, is there a witcher-to-common book in that reportedly extensive library of yours?” Jaskier greeted, arms wide in excitement (though Geralt eyed them warily like Jaskier was trying for a hug, and Jaskier would  _ never _ mortify himself with that sort of expectation).

“Lambert and Eskel are more talkative. Not as talkative as  _ you _ ,” Geralt answered with a huff as he continued walking, hauling the head of whatever beast he had just slain. Jaskier wanted to ask after the creature, but found himself  _ far _ more interested in this snippet of his  _ personal life _ Geralt was sharing with him.

“Ah, so it’s just you, then? Figures I should attempt to become the barker of a witcher who refuses to share gory details with me to his own benefit!” Jaskier knocked his shoulder into Geralt’s as he fell into step beside Geralt. To Jaskier’s great delight, he saw the corner of Geralt’s mouth tip up, just a smidge. Maybe Geralt had missed him, too.

“No. Vesemir talks less than me, now.”

Jaskier hummed. “So, Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir, they are…?” Jaskier trailed off, hoping Geralt would continue his information binge--and wasn’t that truly distressing, that  _ this _ was what Jaskier would refer to as a  _ binge _ \--enough to fill in the blanks.

“Vesemir trained us. Lambert and Eskel are my brothers,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier was  _ dying  _ to ask more. He didn’t know where to begin. Before the words had finished leaving Geralt’s mouth, he had formed hundreds of questions on the training of witchers  _ alone _ . Geralt had to speak to the alderman, though, and to interrupt him on his quest to get his coin would leave Jaskier with a cranky witcher on his hands, and less information than he would like. Besides, a barrage of questions had never helped him get anywhere with Geralt. Sometimes he could confuse Geralt into answering one or two just to get Jaskier to stop, but Jaskier had a suspicion Geralt was becoming immune to his charms.

“Geralt, what is next on our docket?” Jaskier asked as they walked away from the alderman, Geralt’s pockets  _ significantly  _ heavier, due in no small part to Jaskier’s wheedling and dramatizing about the creature--which he still did not know the name of. “Perhaps a vampire? A harpy? One of those disgusting eight-legged creatures with a face that looks like every nightmare ever had pressed together?”

“A brothel,” Geralt answered.

“Right. A… a brothel.” Jaskier frowned, his eyebrows furrowed. “And then what, my good sir? The nightmare creatures?”

Geralt shrugged. “I imagine then a good fuck. I don’t usually find nightmare creatures inside brothels.”

Jaskier groaned. Had the witcher not been practically speed-walking his way away from Jaskier, he would have shoved the witcher. Not that it would have done much good anyway, but Jaskier would have felt better. Like he had made his frustration known.

“Geralt, I hope you aren’t being evasive on purpose. I know you’ve missed me--or at the very least, missed the way I can talk you into some extra coin--and I won’t have you trying to avoid me and leave when I’m caught unawares.” Jaskier huffed, crossing his arms in frustration. “I am going to get myself a room at an inn. If you try to leave without me after you have relieved your _carnal_ _urges_ , I will write you a scathing song. You’ve seen how much good I can do when I’m singing your praises. Do not underestimate my ability to destroy your reputation through song.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but Jaskier liked to imagine he saw a flicker of fear in them. Jaskier would never do such a thing, but he’d certainly be heartbroken. It wouldn’t be the first time, but, like a sane person, he tried to avoid obvious heartbreak darkening his door.

The crowd, as he performed at the tavern that night, was much better than the one in Posada. They shouted out requests, laughed at his jokes, and stomped their feet more-or-less in time. Jaskier’s case was full of coins by the time the tavern door swung open and Jaskier was fully distracted by the witcher striding inside.

Jaskier had traveled with Geralt long enough to recognize displeasure on his face. It was hard to tell from his otherwise gruff and unhappy expressions, but Jaskier could read it in the tilt of his lips and the tension of his forehead. The witcher took a seat in the far back of the tavern, at one of the few open tables left, and though Geralt’s back remained to Jaskier, his head was tilted as if he was actually listening.

A moment later, Jaskier came back to himself. It would not do well for him to lose his audience, not when they were so enamored with him, and he had to put food in his belly somehow. Though every part of him longed to join Geralt, to inquire after what went wrong--because clearly something had, or Geralt would have remained in the brothel--Jaskier continued his performance. It wasn’t long, he had certainly done longer performances elsewhere, but it was long enough to keep the audience’s favor. Often, it was best to leave early, lest they lose interest.

Geralt was still at the table when Jaskier slid onto the bench across from him, but now he had an ale before him. And two empty ones besides.

“I expected you to be buried beneath a beautiful working girl for the better part of the night, and possibly into the early morning. No one there to your liking? Have you decided listening to my dulcet tones is a better way to satisfy your hunger?” Jaskier asked, winking.

“They stank. Every one of them.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Do they not have baths there? Perhaps that could have been your foreplay. You do so love a warm bath.”

Geralt’s head began to shake before Jaskier finished speaking. He took a drink of his ale, spending enough time on it that Jaskier wasn’t certain Geralt was going to offer the information Jaskier was so clearly missing. “Not like that,” Geralt finally answered. “Fear. Every one of them smelled like fear. Strongly.”

He shrugged, as if this was nothing, and Jaskier’s heart ached for him. He hadn’t realized the witcher could perceive that, though, at this point, Jaskier had been certain there were few surprises left. Evidently, he did not know as much about witcher physiology as he thought he did. He would have to do more to press Geralt about this, but perhaps not at a point when Geralt looked so… sick of himself.

“Perhaps if you gave it another go? Maybe they were caught off guard?” Jaskier asked, and again, Geralt was shaking his head before Jaskier finished speaking.

“I will not lie with someone terrified I’m going to rip their throat out,” he answered. Hard to argue with logic like that. “It’s fine. I’ll try again in another town.”

There was very little Jaskier could do to fix this. As much as people were beginning to welcome the witcher, Jaskier couldn't fix everyone’s perceptions of him. And if Geralt really could smell fear on them, well, there wasn’t much Jaskier could do about that, even if he did change the public perception of witchers. It would take a long time before the automatic fear response went away. It was baffling, though. Jaskier couldn’t imagine how anyone could look at Geralt and  _ not _ want to bed him.

“Well. Save your coin tonight, friend. I already have a room, and you are welcome to join me!” Jaskier announced cheerily.

Geralt snorted into his drink. “I’ll get my own room, bard.”

“Ah, yes, well, that is the thing. There is a rather large chance I have purchased the last remaining room.” Jaskier grimaced at Geralt. “I’m afraid it was less an offer of loneliness, but rather an offer of necessity.”

Geralt grimaced right back. “You needn’t sacrifice your room. I’ll find other lodgings.”

“No,” Jaskier insisted, shaking his head. “Geralt, really. Share my room. I will endeavor to give you space when we sleep, but you know I cannot help what I do while I am unconscious. Hence why I will fund this particular stay in a real bed that I know you will hold over my head for the length of our travels tomorrow. But I  _ must insist _ that you stay here, and not only because I am still afraid you will leave despite my warnings of a scathing song.”

Geralt snorted again, and finished the last of his ale. “Fine, Jaskier. Only if you  _ stop talking _ , though.” He pushed back from the table and stood up, looking expectantly at Jaskier.

“You know I can make no such promise,” Jaskier answered, though he grinned as he stood up. 

Though this night undoubtedly was terrible for Geralt, it was shaping up to be exactly what Jaskier wanted. Even if sharing a bed rarely went well for them, as Jaskier had a tendency of wrapping himself around Geralt in his sleep, much like a snake would to squeeze the life out of their meal. Still, Geralt followed after Jaskier, and they oscillated between idle chit-chat and companionable silence as they both staged their belongings in the room and undressed for bed.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, sitting on the bed as Geralt continued the long, arduous process of removing his armor.

“Jaskier?” Geralt answered.

“You can smell fear on people?”

Geralt paused for a moment, his hand stilling over his armor as he placed it carefully away. He nodded, and said, “Yes. It smells… sickly sweet. Like rotting fruit.”

Jaskier nodded back, mulling this over for a moment. “Have you ever smelled it on me?”

Geralt shrugged, returning to removing his armor, though he was now more methodical than he had been. Like he was trying to keep his hands busy. Curious.

“At times,” he answered. “When a beast gets too close to you, or when that drunk swiped a knife at you.” Jaskier shuddered at the memory, and just barely caught Geralt’s smile before it disappeared.

“Never with you, though, right?” Jaskier said this urgently, and Geralt turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. Whatever he found on Jaskier’s face made him hum, and he turned to abandon the last piece of armor.

“Once. When you asked about the fae. But it was… faint. I don’t think it had anything to do with me.”

“It didn’t,” Jaskier answered immediately, then winced. It was important to Jaskier that Geralt knew Jaskier didn’t fear him, but he didn’t want Geralt to press on why Jaskier  _ had _ been a touch afraid during that conversation. It wasn’t time, Jaskier didn’t have the words, and he just prayed to every god out there with a silent  _ Please. Please let him not ask. _

Geralt turned to Jaskier, an eyebrow raised, but he didn’t ask. Only looked at Jaskier. They both stayed there for a moment, watching each other, and as Jaskier stood from his seat on the bed, Geralt’s gaze turned guarded.

“So you’ve never smelled fear of  _ you _ on me?” Jaskier clarified.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and his head shake was slow. He didn’t understand where Jaskier was going with this. Jaskier wasn’t surprised.

“So it’s possible for humans to look at you, and never feel fear because of you. It’s possible for someone to look at you and only see how amazing you are.” He paused, and looked at Geralt. His features took on a wounded quality, but he didn’t turn away from Jaskier, nor say anything. Instead, amber eyes stayed locked on Jaskier’s, and though he looked skeptical, this felt like permission to continue. Jaskier took a few steps forward, until he was just before Geralt. Jaskier could lean forward and kiss him, if he wanted. He so desperately did, but he wasn’t sure yet if Geralt would.

“You are not a monster, Geralt of Rivia. And even if it takes a hundred songs, I will make sure that one day you will have forgotten about the time when you had to sniff out fear before taking someone to bed.” 

Geralt glanced down at his lips. It was just the briefest of glances, but Jaskier saw it. He shuffled closer, and tentatively put his hands on Geralt’s chest. Geralt hesitated only a moment, before taking Jaskier’s hips, and the corner of his mouth quirked. 

“Bold words,” Geralt said. He wanted to say so much more, Jaskier could tell, but the words evaded him. Jaskier smiled.

“I am not afraid of you. And I won’t be the last.” Jaskier said the words softly, seriously, like a promise. 

It  _ was _ a promise. Jaskier had already seen a shift in the witcher’s treatment. Surely if he kept going, wrote more songs, he’d be able to keep Geralt as safe as Geralt had unwittingly kept Jaskier. Geralt deserved better, deserved more, deserved anything and everything the world could offer him. If Jaskier could do anything to change Geralt’s life, Jaskier would do it without question.

“Can I kiss you?” Jaskier asked, breathless. He didn’t mean to ask it, but with Geralt so close, touching Jaskier, and allowing himself to be touched by Jaskier, how could the bard resist?

Geralt answered by closing the distance between them. The kiss started off slow, exploratory, as if Geralt was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the stench of fear to overtake him. Jaskier could say, with certainty, that this didn’t happen. Jaskier allowed himself to be kissed at Geralt’s pace, as he slid his hands up to cup Geralt’s neck.

Soon, the kiss turned hungry. 

Jaskier’s heart hammered in his chest as Geralt backed him up against the bed. Jaskier pulled away only to clamber onto the mattress, tugging Geralt with him until Geralt hovered over Jaskier. Geralt pushed Jaskier’s doublet and shirt out of the way, but made no move to remove them, and Jaskier untucked Geralt’s shirt as bruises were sucked and bit into his neck. 

“Should’ve known you’d be bitey,” Jaskier teased, and he couldn’t remember the last time sex had made him this breathless this early. He thumbed at the fasteners on Geralt’s pants until they were undone, then pushed his trousers down. It wasn’t an elegant move, nor an elegant angle as Jaskier pressed his hand inside and against Geralt’s hardening cock, but Geralt replied with a groan that spoke of  _ want _ .

“Does it bother you?” Geralt asked, trailing down to leave similar bite marks along Jaskier’s collarbone.

“Not in the slightest.”

Geralt’s laugh was breathy against Jaskier’s skin, and quickly descended into a bitten off moan as Jaskier finally, awkwardly, got a hand around Geralt’s cock. His touch was light, his only goal presently was to get the witcher hard for him, and to Jaskier’s delight, that didn’t take long. Geralt pressed his face against Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier could have  _ sworn _ Geralt smelled him, and something about it had Geralt’s cock twitching in Jaskier’s hand.

“Take your pants off,” Geralt ordered.

Jaskier’s body complied, but his blood went ice cold. Geralt must have noticed this, because he pulled back and met Jaskier’s eyes. Tried to, anyway. Jaskier couldn’t look at him, just kept his eyes trained on his trousers and smallclothes, which he now kicked to the side, off the bed.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, a hand on Jaskier’s jaw, forcing Jaskier to look at him. Amber, even now, with his pupils blown wide with desire.

Of course Geralt, with his enhanced senses, would notice. Jaskier flushed and offered him a half-hearted shrug and a shaky laugh. “I don’t like being bossed. That’s all. It’s fine. Are we going to do this, or not?” he answered, with all the bravado he could. 

Geralt watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, but if he thought Jaskier would reveal more to him, he was incredibly wrong. Finally, he pressed forward to kiss Jaskier again, licking into his mouth. As he distracted Jaskier with the kiss, which quickly turned  _ filthy _ , Geralt kicked his own clothes off and ground down against Jaskier’s hips in a move that had them  _ both _ panting, open mouthed against each other.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. 

He held Geralt’s hip, his fingers pressing into the flesh of his ass. Geralt pressed their bodies close, rutting up against Jaskier’s hip and pressing his own abdomen against Jaskier’s cock. It wasn’t quite enough pressure, but his brain didn’t seem to care, as the motion drew a chorus of moans and many renditions of  _ Yes, please, Geralt _ from his mouth. As Geralt moved, Jaskier captured both of their cocks in his hand, pressing them together and the new pressure, the new friction, had them both biting off swears into each other’s mouths. They weren’t kissing so much anymore as panting, heavily, against the other’s lips.

“Jaskier,” Geralt moaned, turning and pressing his face into Jaskier’s neck again. 

Jaskier lost himself as he came, though Geralt kept moving, and in a distant way Jaskier felt the oversensitive twinge of his cock as the witcher rutted against him. He came back to his body just as Geralt’s found his release, and Geralt caught his lips in a bruising kiss that had Jaskier tugging at Geralt’s hair brutally.

The fervor left slowly, and Geralt rolled off him and to the side as Jaskier followed, unwilling to sever this connection just yet. Geralt made a sound that Jaskier chose to interpret as a happy grunt, or at the very least a  _ satisfied _ grunt, and Jaskier could understand. He was feeling pretty satisfied himself.

“You don’t like to be bossed?” Geralt asked, pulling away. He held his head up by his hand, his elbow pressed into the bed, and looked down at Jaskier curiously.

Jaskier had approximately zero interest in having this conversation as Geralt stared into his  _ soul _ , so he pushed himself up to sitting. He shrugged off his doublet, tossing it to the side with far more nonchalance than he normally would have. The bed was warm and he had every interest in staying where it was warm, thank you. He left his shirt on, though. It was a ridiculous look, he was well aware, but there was something comforting in it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be fully bared while he carefully talked around Geralt’s question.

“No, I don’t,” he answered, shrugging. “I don’t like people telling me what to do or ordering me about. Obviously I  _ wanted _ to remove my pants, or I wouldn’t have done it--” Geralt’s breath in was audible, and Jaskier feared he heard the lie, so Jaskier barrelled on “--but I don’t like being told to.”

Geralt was quiet for long enough that Jaskier finally turned to look at him. He looked at Jaskier as if Jaskier was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. Jaskier couldn’t blame him. After a moment, though, he held a hand out to Jaskier, which Jaskier gladly took, and slotted himself against the witcher’s body.

“I will remember that,” Geralt promised, and Jaskier’s heart fluttered in his chest. “For… next time?”

Jaskier grinned and nodded. “For next time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter: dubcon (more explanation in chapter endnotes)

Jaskier knew they would eventually have to part. It was the nature of things, for him and Geralt. Geralt had contracts that even Jaskier had to agree were too treacherous for Jaskier to follow, and it was easier for Jaskier to find time to himself, and leave Geralt to his witchering. Geralt didn’t often pick the most populated cities, either, and if Jaskier was to set about changing his reputation, at times he had to place himself in a larger public.

He also had a feeling Geralt sometimes needed a break from Jaskier. As much as Jaskier was loath to admit it, he knew he was often too much for the witcher, and he feared the day Geralt decided to take his leave of the bard completely. It was easier, then, if he gave Geralt a break every now and again.

It became a tradition, then. After a few months of traveling together, Jaskier would find an excuse to leave. When a month or two had passed, they would meet up again, though when they parted for winter, it was for the entire season. Jaskier still spent much of his time with the witcher, and had grown quite adept at tracking him down. The one exception was after the banquet at Cintra; Jaskier did not find Geralt again for almost an entire year. Jaskier had a feeling this was by Geralt’s design. Geralt needed time to mourn, and get his head on straight, and Jaskier could accept that. When they reunited, it was like no time had passed at all, and for that, Jaskier was glad.

This time, though, as they parted, Jaskier could have  _ sworn _ there was something behind Geralt’s very pointedly stoic face. Often, he imagined with his more cruel sense of humor, it was relief. This time, it was more somber, almost sad. That was a ridiculous thought, though. Geralt was as happy for the time alone as he had ever been, Jaskier was sure of it.

Still, as they parted, Jaskier found himself moving his feet slowly, turning back to watch the witcher’s retreating form over and over and  _ over _ again. Once, he caught Geralt looking back, too.

It was nothing, though. Jaskier was sure of it. They hadn’t even made a plan to meet up again. Jaskier had simply allowed himself to be fooled by the affection and passion present as they laid together. He had allowed himself to be swept up in the way Geralt listened, not only to his words, but to Jaskier’s reactions, too. His care and attention during that first time wasn’t a fluke; if Jaskier seemed unhappy even  _ slightly _ , Geralt did not allow Jaskier to brush it off. The inverse was true as well. Geralt acted as if studying Jaskier’s body and reactions for pleasure was his field of study, and he was quickly becoming an expert in it.

It was only sex, though. Nothing else changed. They both found other partners at times, and otherwise they were friends. No matter how many times Jaskier had daydreamed and longed to kiss Geralt without intent, or hold his hand as they walked the path, or use sweet words to convey the depths of his feelings, that wasn’t what they were to each other. Jaskier could handle that. He could love Geralt from afar.

Even with an audience as responsive as the one he had in Ellander, Jaskier was feeling lonely and melancholy. It had only been two weeks without Geralt, and already he was mooning over him like some lovesick maiden. Honestly, to compare what Jaskier was doing to them would be an insult to lovesick maidens everywhere.

He was trying to distract himself, for fear that if he didn’t, he would set about searching for his witcher again. Geralt deserved far more of a break than that, and Jaskier had no interest in embarrassing himself as far as to follow after the witcher as if Jaskier was not his own man. He was approaching thirty, it was time to  _ grow up _ . Find a distraction.

The woman in the market was beautiful. She clearly had money, what with the delicate blush-colored gown draped across her lovely figure and the jewels around her neck, but that wasn’t what made Jaskier approach. Her smile was kind as she perused a stand selling bright flowers.

“Ah, I see someone as lovely as you chooses to fill her home with beauty,” Jaskier said as he approached the lady. “Might I make a suggestion?” He motioned to a bushel of daffodils. “The yellow would accentuate the rose of your cheeks divinely.”

Her smile was delighted as she held out her hand. Jaskier took it, sweeping himself into perhaps  _ too much _ of a bow for the occasion, but the woman seemed pleased as he looked up and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“I do hope they give you a commission as you do their work for them.” She motioned for another woman, likely her lady in waiting, to take the daffodils, then turned her attention back to Jaskier. “I do, in fact, like to fill my home with beauty. I wonder if I might be able to add  _ you _ to my collection.”

She was a countess. Charming and spirited and knew exactly what she wanted. Jaskier was pleased to find that he was among those she wanted, and allowed himself to be swept up in her grandeur. He had always been quite fond of pretty things and luxuries. He performed in her court and in the town, spreading word of his witcher and his own skill with his instrument. Soon, he barely had to speak a word before people were delightedly turning their chairs to face him and singing along even to his more complicated songs. At night, he warmed his Countess’s bed.

Jaskier never meant to stay long, but he found he could have loved her, truly.

For weeks, she was content to let Jaskier lead. She was warm and pliant under his touch, and her kisses were sweet and fraught with desire. Rarely did she order him about, though when she did, he couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t corrected her like he did Geralt. The Countess did not notice when Jaskier froze, only to stutter back to life a moment later. The commands were simple, he reminded himself. She didn’t know. If she had any idea Jaskier was unable to refuse, she would never order him about.

She grew bolder, though, as they always did. The Countess thought it was a game they were playing, and thought that Jaskier simply delighted in giving his partner what they wanted. He did, but not like this. Jaskier did not dare tell her. Instead, he swallowed his pride, put on a smile, and convinced himself that he was enjoying their coupling. Maybe, for his countess, the curse could be a gift.

“Stay with me, here, in Ellander. Live in my home and be mine,” the Countess said sweetly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

And that, well. Clever as Jaskier was, that would be a tricky command to avoid, and even tricker to obey to completion. His heart escaped to his throat in dread, and he swallowed around the lump it made.

He put on his best smile, wrapped his arms around the countess, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“Nothing would make me happier, my muse,” Jaskier murmured back.

Jaskier could have sworn he felt her face heat up. He didn’t have to see her flush, however, to know that her cheeks had grown red.

It wasn’t a hard life. Likely, it was the best sort of life Jaskier could expect. He was free to write and sing his songs, while living in true comfort. He wanted for nothing, he was fed and bathed and had access to a warm bed whenever he wanted. The clothes he wore were beautiful, colorful, the height of fashion. He was comfortable and appeased in every sense of the word.

Jaskier hated it. His songs felt stale and trite, and there was no pleasure for him in performing for the same audiences time and time again. Adventure called to him from outside the city walls, and Jaskier longed to call back. 

He thought, not infrequently, of Geralt. Jaskier wondered where he was, what creatures he had recently slain, if Geralt missed Jaskier at all. Perhaps he had finally returned to Cintra, claimed his child surprise. Or, more likely, perhaps he was avoiding the entire southwest portion of the continent, and his destiny along with it. Jaskier hoped he was finding more amiable beds to warm, and plenty of monsters to tell Jaskier about, whenever Jaskier could free himself. It didn't matter if Geralt missed Jaskier. Jaskier missed Geralt enough for both of them.

The countess grew bored of Jaskier. Jasker knew she did. Jaskier did everything within his power to make it so: he sang the same songs, he was less adventurous and excited in bed (which was less intentional than a natural side effect of the countess growing more and more directive), and without new adventures, he had no new stories to tell her. Still, it took months upon months of work for her eye to start to turn.

“I am getting older,” the Countess began, her voice neutral. Jaskier feigned indifference, only turned his head toward her to indicate he was listening, but his body tensed in anticipation. Where this was going, he had no idea. “It’s time for me to start considering the future. Marriage. Children.”

Jaskier faced her fully, his eyebrow raised. She wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she picked at her fingers. She was sitting up, her back against the wall behind her, and the blanket pooled in her lap, leaving her torso bare. The Countess was a sight, Jaskier had to admit. In another life, she would have made Jaskier an exceedingly happy man.

“I will be entertaining eligible suitors. It would be...unseemly, to have you here,” she said. She sounded regretful, but Jaskier’s heart soared. “It would never have worked between us. I have truly loved my time with you, but I must consider my options, my estate, the legitimacy of my children. You can only offer me love.”

Jaskier was prideful enough that he had to bite back his retort. He was a viscount, hardly an  _ unseemly _ partner, but he didn’t want to argue against this. The Countess didn’t know, she thought he was only a bard with no titles to his name. It would be best if that was how it remained.

“I understand,” Jaskier said, taking the Countess’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She looked at him, finally, and smiled. It still wasn’t enough, though. He couldn’t go without her word. “So, you want me to...?”

“Leave, Jaskier,” she said, nodding, and gently taking her hand back. “Leave, and remember me fondly.”

Jaskier stood, his body leading the way as his head tried to catch up. He was free to go. Jaskier could find himself anywhere now, and trail after adventure once more. He could find Geralt.

Jaskier packed his bag as he thought of all his “could” options. No longer a prisoner of the Countess’s estate, he could travel the continent again, singing his songs for Geralt and gaining more renown. His return would be triumphant, and he could find himself in another’s bed again, as he was no longer bound to the Countess. At least, until an unintentional command shackled him again. As it would. As it always had, eventually.

It felt as though his brain shuttered off for a moment on that particular thought. It could happen again. Because of the curse, Jaskier could not fall to the bed. The only actions he could take were those that helped him leave this place. The Countess wasn’t the first person to shackle him, she was just the first to do it unknowingly. All things considered, he had gotten off pretty easily. The people that trapped him wanted to use him for a particular, selfish purpose, but they didn’t seek to harm him or others. What if next time, he wasn’t so lucky?

He  _ could _ find adventure again. He  _ could _ find Geralt again. He  _ could _ pretend that his life was easier than it was, and that he could move freely through the continent, to chase his happiness.

It was time to find Lazuli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw expansion: a character, due to not knowing about jaskier's curse, traps him in their home. references to jaskier participating in sex he does not want (no explicit details).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: some canon-typical violence!

As it happened, he found Geralt in Murivel. Or, rather, Geralt found him.

Jaskier had been haggling with a merchant over lute strings. The merchant was being particularly onerous and refused to budge even a little, despite Jaskier insisting (almost rightfully) that the strings were ridiculously overpriced. Both had their arms crossed and their eyes narrowed as they bickered back and forth and, unfortunately, Jaskier was pretty sure he was losing.

Jaskier didn’t even notice the witcher approach until the merchant looked just over his shoulder, and the merchant’s eyes grew wide. Jaskier turned, confused, only to be met with Geralt looking almost… pleased? Relieved? Jaskier couldn’t quite put words to the face Geralt was making, but it was definitely positive. The corner of Geralt’s lip was quirked and his eyes were open wide.

“Geralt!” Jaskier greeted, and he wasn’t ashamed at how large his grin was. He was  _ thrilled _ to find the witcher. The idea of finding Geralt first had been quickly abandoned; while Geralt would likely be a huge help, Jaskier still wasn’t sure how to explain his quest to Geralt. But if he was  _ here _ , then Jaskier didn’t have to waste time by looking for him.

“Jaskier. It’s been awhile,” Geralt said back and, oh, yes. That was  _ absolutely _ a smile. Jaskier’s grin only grew larger.

“Ah, yes. I’ve been in Ellander! Met a lovely woman, the Countess De Stael. She tried to make an honest man of me, but I have an adventurer’s spirit, in the end! It does me no good to remain in one place for too long. I’m afraid the stories are dull, unless you wish to hear me tell you endlessly of her beauty. I imagine  _ your _ stories are far more exciting!” He wheeled around mid breath and pointed at the merchant accusingly. “Don’t think we’re  _ finished _ , sir. I want those strings and I want them for a fair price!”

It took another ten minutes of Jaskier haggling and wearing down the man--and perhaps a healthy dose of Geralt’s brooding to help--before Jaskier finally got a price he felt he could part with. They talked as they made their way to the inn Geralt had stabled Roach at. Geralt had been busy, as usual, and unfortunately the battle he decided to describe to Jaskier was between him and a pack of  _ drowners _ , as if Jaskier didn’t already know how  _ those _ fights went! The amusement in Geralt’s voice told Jaskier that the witcher knew  _ exactly _ what he was doing.

“Geralt, really, you can’t just say ‘Fought a bruxa’ and shrug your shoulders as if that’s the end of it!” Jaskier whined as he closed the door behind him. “I very politely listened to your, quite frankly,  _ shitty _ drowner story. And this is the time you choose to be taciturn? You are a cruel witcher, and I believe this is no way to treat a beloved friend--”

He was cut off by Geralt’s hands on his hips, pressing Jaskier against the wall, and Geralt’s mouth claiming Jaskier’s as his own. Jaskier found he didn’t mind the interruption at all, though he was sure he would circle back to the bruxa encounter. It was hard to care about anything except Geralt’s mouth, hands,  _ body _ on Jaskier’s.

Twice, Geralt almost barked out a command. Jaskier could tell, by the way Geralt started with a directive word, only to cut himself off. Both times, he stopped for a moment, then rephrased, and Jaskier swelled with love for Geralt. This man had no idea what he did for Jaskier. He didn’t even know  _ why _ Jaskier didn’t want to be bossed, and still he tried so hard. Jaskier could follow this man until his dying days, if only Geralt would allow it.

After, Jaskier’s body draped atop Geralt’s. Geralt’s fingers traced patterns into Jaskier’s back and Jaskier’s fingers twisted Geralt’s hair. Jaskier lived for these quiet, soft moments. There were no expectations here. He could just be Jaskier. Jaskier, with his witcher. It had been so long since Jaskier had felt safe, and now he was home, swathed in amber.

“I missed you,” Jaskier mumbled against Geralt’s chest. Jaskier was sure he had never before put more honesty into his words than he did with that one sentence. Geralt’s hands slowed, but did not stop.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

It felt almost like a confession, but Jaskier knew it wasn’t. He could pretend to have Geralt, to hold him in his hand as if he belonged there, but they both knew the truth. Trying to keep Geralt was like trying to hold water in his hands. Jaskier was a poor container.

For almost a week, they stayed in Murivel. It was the longest they had stayed in a city, but Jaskier never found himself itching for more. They took contracts--all little things, dispatched within a few hours, but the coin flooded in. Jaskier performed each night, and though the coin tapered off the longer they stayed, it was still enough to put some in Jaskier’s pocket after their meals and lodgings were taken care of.

Geralt and Jaskier took their time in rediscovering each other's bodies. It wasn’t completely unfamiliar, like learning a new song, but rather like recomposing an old favorite. Jaskier was sure he could stay here forever, but they never stayed in one place for too long. It wasn’t conducive to their lives. Geralt had monsters to slay, Jaskier had songs to sing, and they both had adventures to chase after.

Jaskier convinced Geralt to travel west. They hadn’t discussed yet where they would be going, but Jaskier was sure he would work up the courage in time. He had to, after all, if he was to enlist the witcher’s help in dealing with his problem. 

It was surprisingly easy, as long as Jaskier kept them more north. Otherwise, Geralt would make short little comments about them going too far southwest. Geralt did not want to tread too close to Cintra, it seemed, and face news of any potential child surprises that may be lurking around corners. Jaskier, though frustrated with Geralt’s plan of just ignoring the problem, could understand his avoidance. He didn’t have much of a leg to stand on, after all, what with all the avoidance and secrecy he was participating in during this very venture. So he kept them as far north as he could as they traveled west along the continent.

They were outside Rinde when it all went to shit.

Jaskier had been complaining. Under normal circumstances, he would not admit to the fact that he had been complaining, but this seemed a time that he could own up to what was his fault. He had complained to Geralt about how hungry he was, how they should have stayed at that town they had passed earlier, with the inn that had the most amazing smelling stew. Instead, they were stuck out camping, and Geralt hadn’t been able to catch anything around them. 

Jaskier would have offered to help, but after five failed attempts to hunt himself--apparently he was too noisy--he and Geralt had agreed that it was best to leave the hunting to Geralt. As it was, Geralt hadn’t managed to catch anything, and Jaskier was complaining, because he was hungry and the dry rations simply weren’t going to cut it.

“Melitele, Jaskier. If I try again will you  _ shut up _ ?” Geralt demanded, finally at the end of his rope.

Jaskier’s mouth closed with a click as he thought this over. “Yes. If you try again, perhaps cast a wider net, I will shut up about it. Because, really, did you even try earlier? It seemed as if you just sniffed about and then decided you couldn’t catch a single thing. What’s the point if you don’t give it a real--”

Geralt stood abruptly, and stormed off into the trees. It would have been amusing if Jaskier wasn’t so gods damned hungry.

“Stomping isn’t going to help you hunt! I’ve been told animals don’t like it when you’re loud!” Jaskier called after him, cupping his hands over his mouth to boost his volume, though they both knew Geralt would have heard him just fine without it. Jaskier was feeling much like being an arse.

Geralt was gone for a long time. Long enough that Jaskier really should have been paying more attention, because witcher senses really could only do  _ so much _ , but he had gotten caught up with the song he was composing. He didn’t hear his company until the knife was already pressed into his neck.

“Stand up nice and easy for me,” the man wielding the knife commanded.

Jaskier would have obeyed the command even if he didn’t have a curse to compel him. After all, the knife against his throat was inspiration enough. Jaskier rose slowly, holding his hands out in front of him as if to show that he meant no harm. Internally, he was kicking himself. He should have been paying attention. Geralt was going to be  _ pissed _ .

“Anything good?” the ruffian asked, and Jaskier looked to see, to his horror, another couple of people by Roach. She was causing trouble for them, though, which made Jaskier swell with misplaced pride. He would have so many sugar cubes ready for her when next they stopped in a town.

“This damn horse won’t let us anywhere near the saddlebags!” one of the other bandits, a woman, complained. Bless Roach.

The man behind Jaskier snorted. “You’re afraid of a little pony?”

“I know, why don’t _you_ come over here and get kicked in the gut by this _little_ _pony_ ,” the final brigand, another man with curly red hair, spat. Literally. There was now a wet, bubbly glob on the ground. Jaskier’s face scrunched up. That was really _quite_ unnecessary. 

“Yeah, why don’t you?” Jaskier spoke up. “I’m sure she’d love to get to know you. Her  _ witcher _ would love to get to know you, as well, if you so much as look at her wrong.”

“Oh, a  _ witcher _ ,” the woman purred. “We’re shaking in our boots. All I see’s a fancy bard and his grouchy horse.”

“Get to the fucking saddlebag,” the man behind Jaskier interrupted, before Jaskier could quip anything back. It was probably for the best, anyway. The woman’s eyes went back to Jaskier’s captor, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“What d’you expect me to do? I’m not risking my bones over some shite rations and maybe a little coin.”

They descended into a terse argument. Jaskier stopped following at this point; it didn’t matter what they decided to do with Roach. She wasn’t going to let them anywhere near her without causing some bodily harm, and everyone seemed to know that except the knife-happy barbarian. Jaskier watched, though, as the hand wielding the blade grew more and more lax as he became invested in the argument they were having.

Jaskier reared back his elbow as hard as he could into the man’s gut. He didn’t wait for his captor to react to his winding before Jaskier wrenched the blade from his hand. Before Jaskier had time to think about it, he stabbed the blade into the man’s abdomen. In his haste, Jaskier hadn’t put it in a prime location--it was low and to the side, near his hip. A stab like that certainly would hurt and put him at a disadvantage, and had the benefit of giving Jaskier time to get out of his reach, but Geralt would have been disappointed that it wasn’t enough to completely put the man down.

Jaskier bolted to Roach. He made it past the other two ruffians, who stood still, dumb-founded, and was climbing up on Roach when one of the brigands, the red-headed man, finally caught up.

“Stop!” he yelled.

_ Fuck _ . Jaskier froze, one foot still in the stirrup.

There was a beat, and then the woman was hauling Jaskier down off Roach. He stumbled to the ground and struggled to find his footing as she dragged him down, and now there was  _ another _ blade pressed against his throat. This time, the woman was holding him while the red-headed man held the knife. The sharp edge was pressed hard into his neck, and Jaskier’s skin broke, just a little.

“Clever trick,” the man spat again, this time  _ also _ literally, though Jaskier doubted the spray of spittle was intentional. “Hold out your hands.” Jaskier obeyed, and something flashed behind the man’s eyes. “Obedient, aren’t you?” 

He pulled away, only to very quickly return with some rope, which he wound around Jaskier’s wrists. It was cheap garbage, which splintered and dug into Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier had a feeling his complaints of discomfort wouldn’t be taken seriously. As his hands were bound, Jaskier glanced around, trying to find  _ something _ he could use to his advantage.

There were only the three of them. The woman was surprisingly strong, despite being a good foot shorter than Jaskier. The man Jaskier stabbed was several yards away, clutching at his injury and rasping as he tried to recover. The red-headed man before Jaskier had his attention completely held by his task. Maybe if he could get them to leave him by that rather large rock, Jaskier could throw it at them, or he could try to kick out and crumble his captors--but likely he could only get one before the other subdued him. His odds were not looking good right now.

“You’ll behave now, right?” the man asked. He wrapped the rope around Jaskier’s arms and torso now, effectively binding Jaskier’s arms to his body. Jaskier looked at him with venom, and opened his mouth to speak, only for the man to tut, “Close your mouth. Do not make a sound.”

Jaskier wanted to scream, wanted to voice every obscenity he had ever heard even in passing at this man. But he couldn’t. All he could do was glare at this man with fire in his eyes, only for his rage to be  _ laughed at _ .

“Here, let go of him,” he said, looking past Jaskier at the woman behind him. She backed off, and Jaskier was about to bolt when the man said “Stay there.”  _ Fuck _ . He froze again. “Sit down on that rock.”

Once Jaskier was seated, he watched his captors. The man Jaskier had stabbed had joined them now, a hand still pressed against his wound, and the blood seeping out from between his fingers.  _ Good _ . The woman was watching Jaskier incredulously, her arms crossed over her chest again as she regarded him. The bossy, red-headed one just looked delighted.

“I say we keep him. Do you do everything you’re told?” the red-headed man asked.

Jaskier just glared back.

“Cat got your tongue? You seemed like you had  _ so much _ to say before,” the wounded man sneered. “You’re so docile now. Where the fuck was that when you took my fucking knife?”

“Shut up, Harmut,” the woman said. “You’re a fuckin’ disgrace, letting him get the jump on you like that.”

“Talk, bard,” the red-headed man said, ignoring the second argument Harmut and the woman descended into.

“You’re going to regret this. You shite for brains bandits won’t be anything but blood splatters on the ground when Geralt returns and he finds out you touched his horse,” Jaskier snarled. He didn’t let himself consider if Geralt would also be angry at what they very well might do to Jaskier. He knew Geralt would mostly be mad about Roach, and likely angry at Jaskier for how little he did. Jaskier wouldn’t even be able to brag about how he had gotten the upper hand on Harmut; it was tainted by his current position. “You’ll be sorry, then, when--”

“But he’s not here now, is he?” the red-headed man said, stepping close. He had his knife again, and he trailed it along Jaskier’s cheek. “He’s left you all alone. Pity. You seem  _ very _ interesting. You’ll come quietly if I tell you to, won’t you?” Jaskier opened his mouth to speak again, and the knife pressed against his cheek. “Don’t talk.”

Jaskier took a deep breath in through his nose and, making eye contact with the man, yelled as loud as he could. He earned a slice across the cheek for his troubles, and his yell descended into more of a pained scream, but just as loud. Volume was what mattered here.  _ Something _ so that Geralt could hear him, could find him, could save him.

“Shit,” the woman said, diving forward and clamping a hand over Jaskier’s mouth. He kept screaming through it. “Stop! Stop!”

The scream died in Jaskier’s throat, and she looked at the red-headed man, panicked. “What if he’s telling the truth? What if he is with a witcher?”

“Then we need to go.  _ Now _ ,” the red-headed man said, finally looking just the slightest bit perturbed. He straightened up, as did his companions, and he looked around wildly. “We take him too. Stand up.” He motioned at Jaskier, and Jaskier rose to his feet with some difficulty, given his bound arms. “Come on.”

They rushed through the forest, away from Roach. The red-headed man dragged Jaskier along with a firm hand on his bicep and a reminder, no less than three times, to “Not make a single sound, do not scream or talk.” Really, it was quite overkill, and Jaskier would have been embarrassed for him if he wasn’t getting so fucking nervous.  _ Where _ was Geralt?

Just as he was wondering that for probably the hundredth time, Jaskier heard a sick squelching sound to his right. He turned, and Harmut crumpled to the ground, leaving only a bloodied sword in his wake. Or, rather, a bloody sword attached to a very, very angry looking witcher.

Everything after that happened so quickly, Jaskier couldn’t keep eyes on it all. Jaskier’s captors reacted at once. The woman drew a weapon as the red-headed man pulled Jaskier closer, away from Geralt. The woman was dispatched quickly, crumpling much like her male counterpart had, but by the time Geralt had achieved this, the red-headed man had a knife pressed  _ hard _ to Jaskier’s throat  _ again _ . If Jaskier hadn’t received his earlier orders, he would have hissed in his pain. As it was, he could only sniff loudly.

Geralt froze, but his eyes shone with fury.

“Let go of the bard,” Geralt warned. The knife dug, impossibly, deeper into Jaskier’s skin.

“Not a chance. He’s my shield. Don’t come any closer, or I’ll slit his throat.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, glancing down at his feet expectantly. Jaskier almost snorted. If the blade wasn’t currently cutting Jaskier’s skin--which,  _ ouch _ , unnecessary when clearly they were both cooperating--Jaskier was sure Geralt would have had some quip about how he hadn’t moved.

Geralt’s eyes went to Jaskier, and though he was still furious, something in his face softened. Jaskier wanted to melt, wanted to think that was an indication of something more, but now wasn’t exactly the time to try to translate all of Geralt’s subtle shifts in facial expressions. Geralt wanted Jaskier to do something, if the small, almost imperceptible, nod was anything to go off of. But what Geralt wanted Jaskier to do, he wasn’t exactly sure. Jaskier was bound, held to his full height with a blade to his throat. There was nowhere for Jaskier to go, no move for Jaskier to make.

Geralt looked back over Jaskier’s shoulder at the red-headed man, and he held his hands up in surrender. There was a moment, a brief one, where Jaskier was incredulous. Was Geralt just going to  _ let this happen _ ? Was he just going to  _ let _ this barbarian take Jaskier?

Then Geralt’s eyes cut to Jaskier, just for a moment, and  _ oh.  _ Geralt wanted Jaskier to trust him.

The red-headed man’s grip loosened, just a bit, but enough that he was no longer trying to make acquaintance with Jaskier’s vocal cords. His other arm, his fingers still digging into Jaskier’s bicep, tugged Jaskier back with him as he started to back them both up. Jaskier kept his eyes on Geralt, waiting for some sort of order to do something, and when Geralt tipped his head, Jaskier grinned.

Jaskier launched himself back as hard as he could, taking the red-headed man down underneath him as they both fell into a graceless pile of limbs. The man’s breath was knocked out of him but Jaskier, whose fall had been largely caught by the ruffian, caught his bearings almost immediately. He rolled off the man just in time for Geralt to overtake them.

Jaskier heard, but did not see, Geralt’s sword go through the man’s body. Jaskier was too busy trying to catch his breath and hold in place the knife that had lodged itself into his side. He looked up at Geralt helplessly, and had just enough time to catch Geralt’s panicked look before the black around the edges of his vision took over completely. He fell to the forest floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is (maybe obviously???) where canon diverges a bit. and the reasoning for that is literally... i hate rewriting canon scenes. but from this point on, canon is a little different and the timeline is sped up quite a bit ('cause what is time, really? c; )


	6. Chapter 6

The first time he woke up, Jaskier was in a tent. Geralt was holding him up and peering into his eyes, and Jaskier recognized surprise in Geralt’s eyes, but only distantly. Geralt turned to the other person in the tent. Jaskier turned, too, to see an elf, also touching Jaskier, but his touch was light, exploring. His fingers felt cool against Jaskier’s burning skin, and Jaskier just barely heard the words they spoke.

“--much I can do, there’s something interfering, a curse of some sort--”

“--didn’t have magic, they were just  _ bandits _ , could barely find their way out of--”

“--residence in the mayor’s house--”

It went dark again, and Jaskier just barely registered being lifted back into someone’s arms--Geralt’s, he was sure it was Geralt--and taken somewhere.

The next time he woke up, he was in a lush bed. His eyelids were too heavy to open and he felt hot and sweaty all over. He wanted to kick away the blankets beneath him, he was  _ too hot _ , but his legs wouldn’t cooperate and a moment later a shiver wracked through his entire body.

“Do you doubt my capabilities?”

“No, just your intentions.”

Jaskier let sleep take him again. Anything to stop feeling so damn  _ hot _ .

The third time he awoke, Jaskier felt hazy, as if he was still in a dream, but no longer hot. His body didn’t hurt, not anywhere, though he was certain he should be feeling something on his side. He groped the skin there, trying to find the knife he had last felt jutting out of his skin, but there was nothing. Not even a slight pucker of skin or a tenderness that would imply he was healing. That was curious.

He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. The bed beneath him was still just as lush as he remembered, and now he saw it had the most gorgeous canopy. He pushed himself up to his forearms--which was surprisingly easy, so easy Jaskier almost wondered if he had simply dreamed his injury--and looked around the room. It was grand and ornate and fit for someone very, very important. To his right was a woman.

“Ah, hello,” Jaskier greeted, his voice raspy from misuse and quiet from confusion. “Have we--I mean, I don't want to presume anything, but did we--”

“I healed you from your wounds,” the woman said, rising and gliding across the room toward her. She was beautiful, with piercing violet eyes. Still, something about her told Jaskier  _ Do not touch _ . “It was trickier than it should have been.”

She was upon him, suddenly, hovering over him in a way that made Jaskier want to crawl away. He didn’t, he was a bit manlier than that, and while he felt fine, he had an idea he wouldn’t win in a fight against this particular woman. Her eyes were narrowed as she considered him.

“Ah, yes, well. I’ve always been a bit of a tricky creature.” Jaskier did not like the way she was looking at him, like she was trying to peer into his soul or something. He avoided her gaze and scooted his way to the edge of the bed, on the far side of where she was at. He stood up, and edged his way toward the door. “I predict you want to talk payment, though I admit I don’t have much in the way of that. Don’t suppose you healed me out of the goodness of your heart? And I can be on my way?”

“Your witcher already paid.” That made Jaskier stop short for a moment, which was a foolish decision, because he heard the woman come up behind him. She turned Jaskier roughly and pressed him against the wall, and now he couldn’t escape from her eyes. She  _ was _ peering into his soul, Jaskier was sure of it. Sorceress, then.

“Ah, well, then I thank you for your time my good lady. Why don’t I just take my witcher and we can get out of here?”

She wasn’t listening to him. Her eyebrows crept up her face at whatever she saw when she peered into Jaskier’s  _ fucking soul _ and Jaskier, despite being fully clothed--and very much reminded of that fact from his bloodied and crusted clothes--felt completely naked under her gaze.

“You’ve been gifted by a fae.”

Jaskier scowled and shoved the woman off. He was a little surprised when she did stumble back a bit. Maybe he had caught her off guard.

“I don’t much care for the word  _ gifted _ ,” Jaskier snapped, brushing off his clothes. “Now, if you don’t mind--”

“Geralt doesn’t know, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t, and I’d rather we keep things that way and--”

“Jaskier, you must--”

“I don’t much appreciate being on a first name basis at a  _ disadvantage _ ,” Jaskier cut her off, and felt almost a little embarrassed at how much his voice shook. This was a lot, and it was slowly dawning on him that he had nearly died, all because of this curse. Only to then have someone else call it a  _ gift _ . It was a rude awakening, to be sure.

“Yennefer.” She held up her hands as if in surrender, but Jaskier only narrowed his eyes at her. “I want to know about your gift.”

“I  _ told you _ it’s not a gift--”

“Curse, then.” She stepped closer, and normally Jaskier would love to be in a position like this, with a gorgeous sorceress, interested in hearing about him. More than anything, though, he wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to know where Geralt was.

“Why?” He crossed his arms and tried to make himself as tall as possible. Surprisingly, staring down at  _ Yennefer _ wasn’t making him feel any more in control here. There was something disarming about her violet eyes.

“I’m curious. I’ve never seen a curse like this. I want to know how it works.”

“I’m not an experiment or a curiosity to gawk at. Find your entertainment elsewhere.”

“I could command you to,” she said, her head tilting to the side. She reminded him so much of Geralt in that moment, and Jaskier didn’t care much for the comparison. He didn’t think he cared for this witch at all.

“You could.” Jaskier’s jaw clenched. It was futile, of course. Once she said the words, he’d have no choice but to obey. It made him feel, if only for a moment, as if he had control.

Instead, though, she just looked at him. Her gaze never softened, but it was almost as if Jaskier saw an understanding cross her eyes. She stepped away from him, giving him just a bit of space, and Jaskier took a deep breath as if she had somehow been taking his air.

“I won’t command you. But if you tell me, I won’t tell your witcher.”

Jaskier glared at her. It wasn’t a command, but he had little choice but to agree. There  _ was _ a distinction, there. Even if it was at great cost to him, Yennefer  _ had _ given him some sort of choice. It was better than nothing. He still didn’t like her for it, but he had a feeling Yennefer didn’t much care for being liked.

“I was cursed by a fae as a baby. I cried too much, he made me obedient. Happy?”

Her face remained neutral, but her lips turned downward just the slightest tick. She pitied him. Somehow, that was worse than her finding him something interesting to sate her curiosity. He didn’t want her pity.

“Now, it seems far past time for me to leave. If you could point me in the direction of Geralt, I would love to--”

“He isn’t here,” Yennefer interrupted, striding away. She seemed to have a habit of interrupting. It was rude. “He’s running an errand for me.”

“What sort of errand? Delivering the souls you stole to a devil?”

“I never would have guessed you talk so much, with the company you keep. Did you steal all your witcher’s words?” Yennefer asked, though she seemed disinterested in the answer. “Geralt will return soon. You may wait here, and I will go about other work. And Jaskier?” She paused in the doorway, looking at him seriously. “I’m endeavoring not to command you, but take my invitation to stay in this room as one. Or the command I give you instead will be far more restrictive.”

Jaskier huffed as she left the room, and sat himself heavily upon the bed. He believed the sorceress, and really had no intention of getting himself commanded into anything today, so he obeyed. He passed the time by exploring the room--nothing interesting in it, as he expected, aside from a few fine pieces of jewelry he pocketed and a doublet that fit him so perfectly it would just be a  _ shame _ to leave it behind. He had a feeling these trinkets did not belong to Yennefer, either, and so he did not feel guilty in taking them. Not that he would have felt guilty for stealing from the sorceress otherwise, but he would be a tad concerned that she would mind-read him again.

It took hours for Geralt to return, but there was no question that he had. Despite Yennefer’s thinly veiled threat that implored him to stay in the room, Jaskier stole into the hallway and followed the direction of Geralt’s booming voice. He found them in a large room, with tables and chairs everywhere, maybe a banquet hall?

“I almost didn’t get out  _ Yennefer _ !” Geralt yelled. 

He looked livid, all tense lines and furrowed brows. Yennefer looked unaffected, bored, even. Her arms were crossed and she was examining her nails, likely because she knew it was only making Geralt more upset. She seemed like a needler.

“But you did. And here you are. So, all’s well that ends well,” Yennefer replied, her tone even and her volume low.

“Barely! I was  _ jailed _ . I almost had a  _ trial  _ and a damn noose around my neck. It was sheer luck that I managed to get out!”

“You did say that you would pay whatever it cost. I asked for a favor.”

“You  _ spelled me _ \--” Geralt accused, jabbing a finger at Yennefer.

“You did my favor as payment, your bard is healed, you’re out of jail. I’m not sure what it is you’re  _ complaining _ about.”

Geralt stopped and took a step back. “Is Jaskier awake?”

Yennefer lifted a bored finger to point at Jaskier, and Geralt’s eyes followed. Jaskier’s heart suddenly felt too big for his chest as Geralt’s look softened and he made a beeline for Jaskier. He had scarcely made it to Jaskier before he was tugging at Jaskier’s shirt, lifting it to examine Jaskier’s hip as Jaskier squawked indignantly and batted his hands away.

“Excuse me! You can’t just go about  _ undressing a man _ in public, especially not without warning him!” Jaskier complained. Geralt didn’t seem to hear him, or was simply pointedly not listening. His hand flattened over where Jaskier’s wound had been and he let out a breath of relief.

“You’re okay,” Geralt said, and Jaskier could almost call the look he gave Jaskier a smile.

“I am.” Jaskier smiled back at him, though he did finally succeed in pushing Geralt’s hand away from him.

“As touching as this is,” Yennefer interrupted. Rude. Geralt turned to face her again. Even ruder. “I’m not one for heartfelt reunions. You’re welcome to stay. Have dinner with me, stay the night. As an apology for facilitating your near execution.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to decline, to spin some tale about how they really had far more pressing things to attend to, and who knew how much time they had already wasted on this whole mess. Geralt, however, headed him off.

“We’ll stay.”

Jaskier huffed his frustration, but Geralt was using that  _ tone _ . The one that said he had made a decision and nothing would change it. Jaskier hated that tone.

So they stayed. Apparently, Jaskier had missed quite a bit of time. There wasn’t anything  _ easy _ about the way Yennefer and Geralt conversed with each other, but there was something there. Something powerful. A passion Jaskier had hardly seen from his witcher. The two of them argued like they had been born to argue, and Jaskier lost count of the amount of times Geralt gave Yennefer one of his amused half-smiles. Every time, Jaskier felt something inside him shrivel just a bit more. He found, through the course of the evening, that he had lost his words. They were caught in the empty space between those heavy looks Geralt and Yennefer gave each other.

The end of the meal could not come fast enough. Jaskier jumped out of his chair so quickly that had it been any lighter, it probably would have toppled over. Yennefer left first, though, with a weighty look Geralt’s way.

“How do you feel?” Geralt finally asked once the sorceress left.

Jaskier snorted. “Just superb, Geralt. I’ll give the witch one thing; she knows how to heal a stab wound. Now, shall we--”

“You should rest,” Geralt said with a nod. “Do you know how to get back to your room?”

Jaskier hesitated a moment, shifting on his feet with uncertainty. Geralt thought he was agreeing with Jaskier, but Jaskier hadn’t expected to be dismissed. Alone. He wondered, absently, where Geralt would find himself. Whose bed he’d find himself in.

“Yes, I do,” Jaskier finally answered.

Geralt nodded and, his duty performed, left the room. Jaskier stayed a while longer, though. He stared at the floor, trying to figure out what the  _ fuck _ just happened. What had he missed while he was unconscious? Could he expect to have a travel companion tomorrow, or had Jaskier just lost him to the witch?

Jaskier finally left the room with the uncomfortable knowledge that, even if Geralt did leave with him in the morning, he  _ had  _ just lost him.

Finding his room was harder than Jaskier thought. He had made a wrong turn… somewhere. Really, all the hallways in these grand homes looked exactly the same. He came upon a door that he was  _ certain _ had been his, but the din behind it gave him pause.

If Jaskier was smart, he would have walked away. If Jaskier had any self preservation skills, he would have recognized what was happening without needing to look upon it and confirm for himself. He knew what sex sounded like. He knew what  _ Geralt _ having sex sounded like. He could assume, based upon the fact that he had seen nobody else in this grand house aside from the odd man that had served them dinner, that he now knew what Geralt having sex with the sorceress sounded like.

He still pushed open the door. It moved quickly, so quickly the hinges didn’t have a chance to catch and creak. It was about simple victories.

Jaskier didn’t need the confirmation. And yet, he had it. There was the muscled back of Geralt of Rivia, hiding the likely equally naked form of the sorceress. Jaskier shut the door just as quickly as he had opened it. He had seen quite enough. There was no need for him to witness what Geralt looked like mid-passion with someone else.

Jaskier found his room. It was nowhere near the room Geralt and Yennefer had been in. With shaking hands, he packed up his belongings and tried to get the image out of his mind. He had no one to blame but himself. Closed doors were usually bids for privacy. He had heard the sounds. Still, he could not move on from this fidgety energy.

He fell into a fitful sleep. One full of entirely too many dreams involving amber and violet eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, i can't even handle how kind you all are with your comments. thank you SO MUCH.

Jaskier didn’t wait for Geralt to wake up. Instead, he continued on westward. If Geralt had chosen the witch, Jaskier would simply have to rid himself of this curse on his own.

At least, that was what he convinced himself, before he stopped in White Bridge to drown his sorrows. How was he supposed to know that Geralt would also continue west, and find Jaskier without difficulty? It wasn’t as if he wanted it. Why would Jaskier ever want to see the love of his life, fresh from an encounter with a very sexy seductress, knit his eyebrows together in frustration at Jaskier’s drunken form?

“Geralt! Fancy meeting you here. Enjoy your evening?” Jaskier asked, cheersing Geralt with his half-empty tankard of ale. He was anything but cheery.

“Why did you leave?” Geralt asked, sitting down heavily beside Jaskier.

“Why did  _ you _ ? What, the very sexy witch didn’t want a repeat performance?”

Geralt sighed heavily, and tried to take Jaskier’s ale away from him, but Jaskier twisted his body away. He downed the remaining drink in one long gulp, and by the time he turned back to face Geralt, Jaskier was faced with a very unimpressed frown.

“Yennefer had… other business to attend to.” 

If Jaskier had been a good friend, he would have noted the wounded edge to Geralt’s voice. He had heard it often enough to recognize it, after all. Right now, though, Jaskier did not want to be a good friend. He wasn’t sure he had the ability to. He was a wretched, hurt, and selfish friend, and though Geralt deserved better, Jaskier hoped he would settle for Jaskier anyway.

“Well. Can’t win them all,” Jaskier answered, standing up and brushing off his trousers as he brushed off Geralt’s hurt. 

He strode off, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder, slowing him down. Geralt fell into step beside Jaskier and Jaskier allowed the witcher to follow him to the room Jaskier had rented. If only he’d had the foresight to get a room with two beds, but he was no longer accustomed to the request.

Geralt sat on the bed, and his gaze upon Jaskier was expectant. Jaskier inserted himself between Geralt’s knees, still standing, and rested his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt held his hips. Jaskier could almost call them lovers. They certainly looked like it, now.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Geralt said, cutting through the silence. His thumbs rubbed along Jaskier’s hips, dipping underneath the hem of Jaskier’s trousers. Jaskier shivered.

“I hope you don’t think me  _ that _ easy, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt shook his head.

“Nothing about you is easy.”

Jaskier did not know what that meant, but Geralt seemed disinclined to elaborate. They did not lie together that night, beyond in the literal sense. Nor the next. Nor for many nights after that. Both of them nursed a quiet, secret hurt they were too scared to put words to. Jaskier led them both west, and if Geralt noticed, he did not comment.

Jaskier wanted to hate this witch for the way she had so clearly taken over Geralt’s mind, but Jaskier could hardly blame her. Hadn’t he, after all, fallen under the same sort of spell for Geralt? Hadn’t he been distant with lovers since, due to thoughts of his witcher? It was no more the sorceress’s fault that Geralt had fallen than it was Geralt’s fault that Jaskier had. Jaskier could be envious of her, but he could not be hateful. At least, not for this.

They were slower than usual. Jaskier had a sneaking suspicion Geralt was taking more contracts than usual for the distraction, and possibly to distance himself from Jaskier. If Geralt was too tired or wounded from a fight, that was an easy reason to say no to Jaskier’s advances. It was also an easy reason to avoid the advances altogether. Jaskier tried not to notice, but it hurt all the same.

There was a newly rare night when they were camping  _ together _ , rather than Geralt sneaking back late after fighting some beast. Geralt had finished a contract earlier than expected, but the people in town were nasty to Geralt, and neither Jaskier nor Geralt felt like dealing with their ire. Jaskier plucked a tune on his lute as the darkness crept in, and Geralt tried to pretend as if he wasn’t listening.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Geralt asked, so suddenly it startled Jaskier.

Jaskier looked up to find Geralt staring at him, his skin taut with frustration, deep lines on his forehead. He raised an eyebrow in return.

“When?” Jaskier asked, turning back to his lute. He had a feeling he knew, though.

“When the bandits tried to take you. When you were stabbed. Why did you let yourself be taken?”

Jaskier took a deep breath and shrugged. “I did. Fight back, that is. You were late to the party.”

“Jaskier, don’t make a fool of me--” Geralt cut himself off. He tried to bite back his sudden flare of anger, and Jaskier almost wished he wouldn’t. This was the most Geralt had spoken to him in  _ days _ . Jaskier could handle Geralt’s anger far more than Geralt’s hurt, especially Geralt’s hurt at being lovelorn over someone  _ else _ . “I followed you for a while. You did whatever that man told you to. You let him tie you up. Why?”

“Really took your time saving me, then, didn’t you?” Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

He turned his gaze back to Geralt, but continued playing. The lines of frustration on Geralt’s face deepened until Geralt stood, then crossed the short distance between them. Jaskier rose, too, and they stood eye to eye. Geralt snatched Jaskier’s lute out of his hands, and Jaskier squawked indignantly, his hands, now empty, flying to his hips.

“Give that  _ back _ .”

“No. Tell me why you didn’t fight back.”

“I  _ did _ ,” Jaskier insisted, and he thanked the curse for small mercies that a half-truth seemed to suffice. “I  _ did _ fight back. Then it got to a point where it wasn’t in my best interest. I was outnumbered and unarmed.”

“Because that’s ever stopped you before? You decided in that moment to develop the self-preservation skills enough to get yourself  _ kidnapped _ rather than  _ killed _ ?” Geralt shook his head. “You’re hiding something. What the fuck happened, Jaskier?”

Jaskier reached for his lute, but Geralt tugged it away. The witcher held it out of Jaskier’s reach, far behind his back, and unless Jaskier wanted to start an actual tussle for it, he figured it was a safe bet that Geralt would not be returning the instrument. Not without having this conversation to a point that was satisfactory for Geralt.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Geralt! I did my best! I almost got away, with Roach, and then they got the jump on me. This was  _ after _ I stabbed the other man, which seems to be a detail you’re overlooking. At that point, it was better to just be compliant and hope you’d make it in time.  _ Apparently _ you just wanted to watch the show, though?” Jaskier jabbed a finger into Geralt’s chest. “I don’t have witcher healing like you do. I can’t just walk away from a slice across my throat.”

“You almost didn’t walk away from the knife in your  _ side _ either!” Geralt spat.

Jaskier threw his arms wide, stepping back a bit for the dramatic effect of it all. “Oh,  _ I’m sorry _ , next time when I’m throwing myself back onto someone who has a knife to my throat, I’ll be sure to avoid his flailing limbs! How irresponsible of me to just jump onto his weapon like that! It was my intention to put my insides on my outsides, but I’ll try to be more careful next time!”

Geralt shoved the lute into Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier scrambled to grab the instrument before Geralt was storming away to the other side of the fire. Jaskier hesitated for a moment, then placed his lute gingerly on its case, before wheeling back to face Geralt.

“This wasn’t my fault, Geralt,” Jaskier began. He was still tense and angry, and his voice betrayed that, but he was no longer shouting at the witcher. “I did what I could to get away  _ and _ protect your horse, but I was at a bit of a disadvantage. And it worked out  _ fine _ , didn’t it? Gods, I think you have plenty to  _ thank _ me for. After all, me getting wounded led to you getting your dick wet in a sorceress. It’s not  _ my fault _ she doesn’t seem to be the commitment type.”

Geralt’s eyes flashed and he bared his teeth at Jaskier, but Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him; he never had been.

“Oh, yes, you’re so frightening,” Jaskier deadpanned, rolling his eyes. He knelt down, carefully putting his lute into the case, then straightened out his bedroll. “So we’re still not talking about  _ that _ particular aspect of things. Add it to the list of things Geralt doesn’t talk about, right behind his fucking  _ child surprise _ . Fine. Instead, you’ll just continue to try to avoid me by throwing yourself at monsters and you’ll brood on your own, as if this was all somehow  _ my _ doing. As if this has been just a fun little jaunt for me. As if any aspect of watching you make yourself miserable over some sorceress you barely know is enjoyable for me.”

Jaskier sighed and removed his doublet, putting it away a tad more hastily than he normally would have. He laid on his bedroll and turned to his side, away from Geralt.

“Jaskier--”

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier said, with a great deal of finality.

They didn’t talk more that night. The next day they traveled in mostly silence, though Jaskier caught Geralt considering him  _ many _ times. When they stopped for camp that night, Geralt sat a little closer to Jaskier than he had been, and that about broke him. The bard was nearing the end of his rope; he had already decided if things didn’t change soon, he would have to leave Geralt. The pain of being without him  _ surely _ would be nothing compared to the pain of having him just within reach, but still so distant. Jaskier’s wasted heart couldn’t take it.

“That doesn’t rhyme,” Geralt said, out of the blue, as Jaskier composed out loud.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt, bewildered. Geralt so rarely commented on his music, much less his  _ lyrics _ . “It doesn’t have to rhyme.”

Geralt shrugged. “Sounds better if it rhymes. I thought you wanted a hit.”

“And what, pray tell, would you know about writing a hit?”

“I know it’s not that.” 

But he was actually sort of  _ smiling _ at Jaskier, and Jaskier, well. Jaskier didn’t know what to do with that except smile back for a moment before grumbling down at his lute. Geralt soon came to regret commenting on Jaskier’s song, because Jaskier began to compose a  _ filthy _ one about Geralt’s endowments, until the witcher was barking a laugh and pushing Jaskier over, begging him to stop.

They were on even ground again, after that. They could talk, Jaskier with ease and Geralt responding with some quip or other. Jaskier could touch him again, without fear of Geralt turning away from him.

Geralt began to seek out Jaskier’s easy affection. He hummed pleasantly as Jaskier pressed a hand to Geralt’s arm, he leaned into the way Jaskier washed his hair. When it was cold, and even some nights when it wasn’t, he wrapped Jaskier up in his arms to sleep, or allowed Jaskier’s arms to wind around him. And when Geralt finally approached Jaskier and took him to bed, Jaskier noticed the way Geralt was gentle with him. Tender, even.

Geralt held his face as if Jaskier was something fragile. The stars above them were beautiful, but absolutely nothing compared to the way Geralt’s amber eyes shone. Geralt undressed Jaskier slowly, like it was the first time, like they were just getting to know each other's bodies.

Jaskier bent into his every touch. As Geralt kissed his way along Jaskier’s body, Jaskier prayed to anyone that was listening.  _ Don’t hurt me this time _ .

He should have known better by then not to ask for things he knew he couldn’t have.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: references to child abuse & non-con (both were unintentional and they're very short references). i also feel as if i should warn you that i have only seen the show and therefore the character i bring in here probably does not deserve the characterization i give her, but creative liberties and all.
> 
> we made it to halfway!

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked.

The sun was still just barely beyond the horizon, still casting a light glow about the world as if it did not want to leave. It was late, and the days were long and warm, even the nights held their heat just a little, enough that Jaskier didn’t find himself shivering and pressing against Geralt’s body. Sometimes, he couldn’t even bear to cuddle up against Geralt. He could only sling an arm around Geralt’s waist, as they otherwise kept their distance, avoiding capturing too much heat when they were already uncomfortable.

Now, though, Jaskier was comfortable, with his doublet open and his shirt thin. Even Geralt seemed to have relaxed a bit, with his buttons largely undone and his shirt hanging open. Jaskier could look his fill, he knew now, and so he took in the sight greedily.

“Geralt,” he repeated, when the witcher didn’t respond.

“What, Jaskier?” Geralt answered, his eyes trained on the rabbit he was skinning.

“I need to go west.”

Geralt glanced up at Jaskier briefly, exasperation in his eyes, then he looked back down. “We are going west.”

It had been helpful, Geralt trying to make amends. He let Jaskier lead their travels, for once, though Jaskier could tell Geralt was growing tired of being so close to major cities. He grew nervous at how near they drew to Cintra. They had quarreled the other day about the direction they would go after finishing a contract. Geralt wanted to follow the river to the southeast; Jaskier wanted to go west. For once, Jaskier had won, though it was hardly a worthy victory. Geralt had been moody about it all day. Jaskier figured it was time for some honesty.

“More west. I need to--” He paused, swallowing in vain around the lump in his throat. “I need to go to Lettenhove.”

Geralt hummed and, satisfied with his rabbit, placed it on the spit over the fire. He was quiet for so long, Jaskier didn’t really know if he should be saying something. Was Geralt thinking it over? Should Jaskier explain more? He wasn’t sure, and this weird limbo was putting him even more on edge.

“Will you leave in the morning, then?” Geralt finally asked, and Jaskier let out the breath he wasn’t completely aware he had been holding.

“I was hoping, actually, that you would come with me.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, and opened his mouth, primed to argue, but Jaskier barreled on. “I know, cities aren’t much your thing unless there’s coin to be made. And Lettenhove isn’t exactly… large. So I imagine there isn’t much to be found in the way of… monsters to fight, and the like. But there is some business there that I really must take care of, and it would be exceedingly helpful if you were there with me.”

Jaskier sucked in a shuddering breath. It was embarrassing, really, his lung capacity was much better than that. He had absolutely gone on longer rambles before without being so breathless, but his anxiety built so much that he found himself almost gasping for breath once he finished. Geralt looked confused, watching Jaskier and his eyes dipping to Jaskier’s chest every so often. Could he hear the way Jaskier’s heart was hammering? Probably. Bollocks.

“You need a bodyguard again? That didn’t go so well for me the last time.” Geralt smirked as if it was a joke, but his eyes were guarded, as if he was truly concerned.

“Not… exactly. Well. Sort of. There are plenty of people I don’t want to run into, but my business isn't exactly… in the city. Around it, more. Please, Geralt. It won’t be like Cintra.” It could be far, far worse, but he would have to hope that wasn’t the case. Jaskier had nothing to lose, but Geralt had plenty. Jaskier wouldn't let that happen.

“What is your business?”

“It’s, ah. Well. It’s complicated, largely. It might take some time to explain, you know how it is, life, being complicated, you expect things to go one way and instead they go another--”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, holding up his hand. “Tell me the truth.”

“Lettenhove was my home,” Jaskier answered, then took another shuddering breath. “I grew up there. I’m not excited to go back but I have to try to take care of something. It’s not political or familial, and you are, for once, dressed exactly as I will need you. But, you.” He chewed on his lip for a moment, considering. “You make me feel brave. And I’m very, very scared about what I need to do.”

Geralt considered him for a moment. “You don’t want to tell me what it is?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Not yet. I--Really, you don’t have to do anything. Just go with me, and I’ll handle the rest.” Jaskier stood, crossing the campsite until Geralt had a lapful of him. There was something poetic about the way Geralt easily accepted him, and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s body without hesitation. Their eyes kept contact the whole time, and Jaskier took Geralt’s face in his hands. “Can you trust me? That it’s important? That I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t?”

Geralt blinked, slowly. “I don’t like this. I don’t like agreeing to something when I don’t know what it is I’m agreeing to.”

“I know.”

Geralt frowned and watched Jaskier. Jaskier lost himself in the warmth of Geralt’s amber eyes, while Geralt searched for some sort of hint in Jaskier’s face. There was none, Jaskier was sure, but Geralt sighed and touched their foreheads together all the same.

“I’ll go. For you.” Jaskier beamed at him, and Geralt looked warily back. “I feel as if I just signed a contract with a demon.”

“Not a demon, just me,” Jaskier answered, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s brow.

“Somehow, I feel as if that’s worse.”

Despite Geralt’s apprehension, they continued west. They took their time, and Geralt allowed Jaskier to pretend it was because they needed coin, not because he was stalling. It worked to their benefit, really, because after only a few cities, their pockets were full. Geralt could finally buff up his armor and replace Roach’s bridle. Jaskier bought a new doublet, after one of his had been so thoroughly doused with selkiemore guts that Jaskier knew it was beyond saving.

Eventually, they had to make it to Lettenhove. Jaskier felt their impending arrival creep in on him like a noose around his neck. Still, the anticipation was nothing compared to actually looking at the gates.

When he and Geralt came to the wall, Jaskier stopped short. He stopped so suddenly, it took Geralt a moment to realize Jaskier wasn’t following him and turn Roach around to face the bard. Jaskier just stared, and couldn’t will his feet to move forward.

Everything looked exactly as he remembered it, or what little he could see did. He had grown up here, knew the small city and its buildings so well he was sure he could navigate to his childhood home with his eyes closed. The taste of bile in his throat was familiar, too. He could see the bench where his father had made him sit all day, unaware that Jaskier couldn’t move, and he burned so badly he was sick for three days. There was the stable where comfortable, easy kissing with a stable hand turned into far too much, far before Jaskier was ready, but he couldn’t find the words to make it stop. If he went further in, he’d find the market, where once a girl had told Jaskier to take a necklace for her, had been delighted when he did, but the merchant caught him and threatened to cut off Jaskier’s hand. He got away with a welt instead.

He hadn’t known, then, how to get himself out of those situations. How to avoid them entirely. Coming to Lettenhove should have felt welcoming, a walk down memory lane, a reminder of his power as a viscount and the fearlessness of childhood. Instead, he felt just as small and powerless and weak as he had when he stole away in the middle of the night.

Geralt must have seen something on Jaskier’s face, because he dismounted Roach. Jaskier watched him wearily as Geralt approached him.

“Okay?” Geralt asked, and held out his hand.

Jaskier took it, automatically, and huffed out a breath before nodding. “Okay,” he repeated. Together, they walked into Lettenhove.

Stepping into the city proper felt as if Jaskier was stepping into his own memory. Very little had changed, though Jaskier recognized few of the people he passed. It made sense; Jaskier hadn’t spent too much time outside of his family’s estate, and those he had known would be much older now. They had changed, much like Jaskier had changed.

Jaskier tried to convince Geralt they could camp rather than finding an inn, but Geralt would not agree to it. It was an interesting change of circumstances--Jaskier had been convinced that his suggestion would be accepted with open arms. Geralt seemed to be particularly cautious about this endeavor, though. Jaskier still hadn’t told him what his business was, and the lack of information was grating on Geralt. Tonight, though. Tonight he would tell Geralt everything. And tomorrow, they would find Lazuli. 

Very few of Jaskier’s plans seemed to work out the way he expected them to. He was purchasing a room at the inn--one as far away from his family’s estate as Jaskier could find--when it all went to hell.

“Julian! Julian, is that you?”

Jaskier immediately tensed, and he tried not to turn, not to react, but the voice came with a hand that landed between his shoulder blades. The woman leaned against the counter, and when she saw Jaskier’s face her own lit up.

“I knew it had to be you! Julian, what are you doing here? It’s been so long!”

Jaskier managed a smile, though he imagined it looked more like a grimace, and turned to face the woman. She was average height, with blonde hair, and gorgeous blue eyes that Jaskier was big enough to admit rivalled even his own.

“Essi?” he asked, and allowed himself to take in his sister.

She had been a child when Jaskier left, no more than ten. And, truly, he was _delighted_ to see her, as he had always gotten along with Essi, but he didn’t like what she represented. He had hoped to make it through this particular quest without leaning heavily on the ugly nostalgia present in this town. Destiny seemed to have other ideas for him.

Still, he embraced his sister, because what else was he to do? He hadn’t seen Essi in decades.

“You aren’t planning on getting a room here, are you? Oh, Julian, don’t be ridiculous. Stay the night at the estate. You and your…” her eyes flickered over Jaskier’s shoulder to land on Geralt, “friend.”

Jaskier grit his teeth and nodded. He didn’t have much of a choice now. He had forgotten the easy way commands slipped from the tongues of his family. If Jaskier wasn’t careful, he’d find himself a prisoner again.

“Geralt, this is my sister, Essi,” he said, turning and gesturing broadly for them to make their introductions. “Essi, this is Geralt of Rivia--”

“The witcher, I know. We’ve heard your songs.” Something was tight in her expression, but Jaskier couldn't begin to know what it was. There had been a time when Jaskier could practically read the minds of all his family. He was sure that skill was long gone. “Come, let’s go.”

Jaskier glanced helplessly back at Geralt as his legs put him in step beside Essi. Geralt hesitated a moment, but ultimately ended up following them. At least until they passed the stables.

“Jaskier,” Geralt started, gesturing at them while Jaskier tried to slow his steps. “Roach.”

“Yes! Yes. Essi. Essi, dear,” Jaskier said, tapping her on the shoulder. His concern over Roach was the reason for his somewhat frantic voice. Definitely. “You see, Geralt has a horse, we must stable her.”

Essi waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. Go. Get the horse. I’ll wait here.”

Jaskier nodded, turning on his heel immediately in a way that he wasn’t sure if the _curse_ had prompted it, or his own desire to have a moment alone with Geralt. Geralt seemed to have the same idea, because as soon as he and Jaskier were in the stable, he tugged Jaskier behind a post, out of Essi’s view.

“Jaskier, what the _fuck_ is going on? We’re staying with your family now? In your _estate_? I didn’t even know you had family here, still.” Geralt looked lost and confused, and about ready to burst. Jaskier could relate.

“It… seems we are. I’m so sorry, Geralt. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t have--it wasn’t my intention--I mean. I _told you_ we should have just camped. I had hoped no one would recognize me and we’d be able to just… pop in and out, but. Rules. And. Some such.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “What have you gotten us into?” he asked.

Jaskier smoothed his hands down Geralt’s arms, trying to soothe him. It wasn’t effective in soothing either one of them. “I’m sorry. And… I’m sorry for how much you are probably going to hate tonight. We have to… toe some lines. I am a noble, after all; my father is a Count. I am not, however, completely sold on the idea of being perfectly respectable, just respectable enough to not get us killed. You have my permission to be as terse as you’d like. You shouldn’t argue with anyone, however. Especially not my father.” He took Geralt’s face in his hands, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry. I tried to avoid this.”

“Jaskier!” Essi called. She had always been rather impatient, and apparently the years had not squashed this. “Do you have the horse, yet? It’s time to leave!”

Jaskier shot Geralt one more apologetic look, then motioned toward Roach. Geralt sighed and nodded, taking Roach by the reigns and leading her back out to Essi. As they returned to Jaskier’s sister, the pit in Jaskier’s stomach grew, his dread powerful enough now to make him feel ill.

They made idle conversation as they walked. Largely, it was Essi speaking, telling them all about the changes they had made to the estate, how Jaskier would “hardly recognize it, now!” Jaskier highly doubted that, but he smiled charmingly at her all the same. Geralt stayed behind them, and Jaskier longed to be able to touch him; maybe that would calm his pounding heart. As it was, though, Essi insisted on looping her hands through Jaskier’s arm, almost as if she expected him to bolt away at any moment. If she hadn’t already commanded him to stay the night, he probably would have.

A quick getaway was foiled when Roach was led away to the stable by a stablehand, anyway.

The estate was just as grandiose as Jaskier remembered it. Though Jaskier maintained his taste for the finer things in life, something about the grandeur in front of him was obscene. It didn't matter how beautiful, how towering, how grand this house was; it was a prison just the same. Jaskier did not care for the ghosts that passed through him as he entered the doorway.

“Here, I’ll announce to father that you’ve returned. You will join us for dinner! Until then, you remember where your room is? I’ll call a--Martyn, show the witcher to his room?” Essi said, turning to a servant in the entryway.

“No, no. Martyn, don’t trouble yourself. Geralt will stay with me. We’ll only be here a night, no need to prepare a whole other room,” Jaskier added, speaking quickly to try to get _some_ control back.

Essi’s frown was deep. “Jaskier, really, it’s no trouble. It wouldn’t be--”

“I really must insist,” Jaskier interrupted, his smile tight. “Thank you for your hospitality. We will see you for dinner. Now, we’ve been traveling, and really must clean ourselves up if we’re to be polite, presentable company.”

Essi scrunched her nose up, grinning mischievously as she patted Jaskier’s shoulder. “Yes, I see you have a layer of grime about you. My, how you’ve changed! Mother never would have let you get yourself this dirty. She must be rolling over in her grave.”

Jaskier’s smile turned pained and his heart seized at the mention of his mother. “Hopefully only a gentle turn,” he agreed, then pulled away with a quick, if overdone, bow. “Martyn, a bath would be delightful, if you would?”

Jaskier could not get Geralt to their room fast enough. Once he had tugged Geralt inside, he closed the door behind him, pressing his back against the solid wood and just breathing for a few moments. When his eyes opened again, Geralt was staring at him. Jaskier tried to shrug off his gaze.

“We ought to--”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier let his shoulders slump and he crossed the room and sat heavily on the mattress. Just as soft as he remembered. There was nothing quite like the feeling of returning to your own bed. Geralt did not follow him, only turned to continue staring at Jaskier and, really, he was quite finished with the scrutiny.

“What, Geralt? Just say whatever it is you need to say,” Jaskier snapped, throwing himself back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“ _What_ is going on?” Geralt asked after a moment’s hesitation. He sounded just a tad more gentle, more concerned. Jaskier could hear him moving, coming to the bed and taking a seat beside Jaskier, though his movements were slow. Ah, so Jaskier was a spooked animal, now.

“We’re staying in my family’s home. We’re having dinner with them tonight. That was my younger sister. I would have thought you had kept up with all that.” Jaskier flung his arm over his face, covering his eyes.

“You don’t want to be here. Why? Why didn’t you say no?”

“Oh, if only I could,” Jaskier answered, letting out a humorless laugh.

They sat there for a moment, in silence, before the bed shifted. Jaskier assumed Geralt was getting up, but instead he moved closer. Jaskier’s arm was pulled away and he blinked up to find Geralt hovering over him. Now that his face was uncovered, Geralt cupped Jaskier’s jaw with feather-light fingers. It was so soft, so tender, that Jaskier wanted to weep.

“Jaskier. Talk to me,” Geralt pleaded, and he looked so, so lost.

“I want to. I really do. I don’t know how to begin to tell you about me and my family and all that’s… here. I don’t… like being here. I suppose that’s obvious.” He huffed out another humorless laugh. “I ran away when I was young, to Oxenfurt. They knew I was there and let me go, forgot about me, which is probably the kindest thing they ever did for me. I didn’t want to ever come back.”

“So why did we?”

Jaskier tried not to let his heart flutter at Geralt’s casual use of _we_. It didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself. Geralt was only referring to the present, the fact that Jaskier had dragged him along on this endeavor, and nothing more. If he kept reminding himself, maybe he could steel his heart against the inevitability of Geralt leaving once this whole task was over. Because Jaskier knew he would leave. Probably to lick his wounds of betrayal, because Jaskier couldn’t be honest with him.

“I told you. I have business here,” Jaskier answered, turning his head away and brushing Geralt’s fingers off his jaw in the process.

There was a knock at the door and a moment later, Martyn entered with the water. Jaskier sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs, and perched his chin atop his knees to watch as the tub was filled. Once Martyn left, Jaskier stood, discarding his clothes on his way to the tub without much fanfare, though before he stepped into the water he turned to look at Geralt expectantly.

Geralt hesitated, only a moment, then rose and followed Jaskier to the tub. His clothes and armor littered the floor much like Jaskier’s did, and when he climbed in beside Jaskier, his arms wound around Jaskier’s body and pulled him close. They kissed until they were both breathless and only then did they pull away to find a comfortable place to rest. Jaskier let himself be backed up against Geralt’s chest, melted into the security that was his witcher’s arms, allowing the comfort Geralt provided as he teased his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.

“Someday, you will need to be honest with me,” Geralt mumbled into Jaskier’s ear.

"You’re the only one I’ve ever been honest with,” Jaskier answered, and the half-truth--the _lie--_ felt bitter on his tongue.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: references to child abuse, bigotry toward witchers
> 
> also i need you all to know that i realized that the acronym for this fic is "ibtch" and i laughed about it for a solid minute because that's where my sense of humor is

Jaskier was surviving. That was the most accurate word he could use for what he was currently doing, as he just barely managed to stay upright in his chair, sipping at his wine. It took every bit of self control he had not to throw the wine back into his mouth as if it were the cheapest, most disgusting ale and he was intent on getting drunk. It was fine wine, the sort of wine he missed on their travels, and to get drunk at this moment would not be advantageous.

Besides, his sister had already forbade him from getting drunk.

It was amazing, really. Jaskier had never been able to avoid the casual commands that people so often threw his way without realizing. However, the directives he received outside Lettenhove were nothing compared to the sheer volume of orders he was given within its walls. Every other word out of his sisters’ mouths--because they all were here, Essi, Meave, Ayla, and Adeline, along with their husbands--were commands.

“Julian, sit next to _me_ ,” Ayla crooned, and Jaskier slipped into the seat.

“No, don’t eat that. You won’t like it. Have some of the roast potatoes, instead. The sauce Eda makes is just to _die_ for,” Meave promised. She was right, it was very good, but Jaskier was certain he would have liked the herbs on the carrots she had forbidden him from.

“Tell us of your travels,” Essi begged. Though Jaskier was often a storyteller, he kept his stories short and to the point. No one seemed to care, for no sooner than he had finished one story, the four of them and their husbands had moved on to other topics.

Every so often, Jaskier shot Geralt an apologetic glance. It was a blessing in disguise, having so many visitors here. Jaskier’s sisters had always been a bit vain, and the need to compete with each other for attention was ingrained in them after all these years. The attention they paid to both Jaskier and Geralt was polite, at best, throughout the entirety of the meal. Dessert was served, and Jaskier was hesitantly thrilled; maybe they would make it through this visit without too much trouble after all.

“So, Witcher,” Adeline began, and everyone turned to look at him.

 _Oh no_. Jaskier sat up, glaring at his eldest younger sister, who paid him no mind. Unsurprising; she never had before, unless he was in her way.

“His name is _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier interrupted as soon as Adeline opened her mouth again. She turned to him for a moment, glaring, but turned her attention back to Geralt a moment later as if Jaskier hadn’t spoken at all.

“You clean up rather nicely. I thought a monster hunter like you wouldn’t know his way around a bar of soap,” she smiled, and Jaskier wanted to slap it off her face. 

“You’re one to talk, Adeline. I remember you crying when Mother snipped off your hair after it grew too dirty and matted when you refused to wash it,” Jaskier bit at her.

“Stop talking, Julian,” Adeline snapped back. She smirked as Jaskier grew silent. Her rouged lips matched the embroidered roses on her gown. If he punched her, maybe the bloom of red across her cheek would match as well. “I know you do so _love_ nostalgia, but I am trying to get to know our _guest_ . Mother was so good at keeping you in line, but maybe it’s time for the rest of us to learn her _gift_. Don’t speak until you’ve been asked a direct question.”

Her smirk only grew, but Jaskier could feel himself pale. He glanced at each of his sisters in turn. They all avoided his eyes, a slight blush creeping up their cheeks. They knew. Their husbands seemed clueless, but they had all excused themselves from the table, and were talking of the Nilfgaard, and the odds of their reported siege having any success. Jaskier had been ordered to stay at the table for dessert and Geralt, bless him, stayed at Jaskier’s side. Geralt had no idea what he had walked into.

Satisfied, Adeline turned back to the witcher. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about witchers. Is it true you don’t _feel_ anything? That your emotions were numbed by your mutations? How monstrous.” Her head tilted to the side.

Jaskier slammed a fist on the table, but Adeline ignored him.

“I don’t know why you would need stories from me. It seems you have your own sources of information,” Geralt answered. Jaskier looked at him from the corner of his eye. Geralt was tense, with his arms crossed before him, and Jaskier longed to reach out and take his hand. That would only bring further scrutiny, though, and Jaskier was hesitant to call any additional attention to Geralt’s obvious importance to him. He had a feeling Adeline was already weaponizing it against Jaskier.

“Oh, but I think your stories would be quite _illuminating_ . All the ones I’ve heard have such flowery language. I have a feeling you would cut right to the quick of it all. No need to get poetic about _animalistic_ instinct.” Adeline shrugged. “I am curious, after all, how my brother found himself in your company. You are such a quiet, impressive beast and he is… Julian. Wouldn’t the noise alone drive you to insanity?” She glanced at Jaskier, and there was that smirk _again_. “I do suppose he has his perks.”

Geralt tilted his head and offered only his characteristic hum in response. Adeline was not sated with that answer, and she leaned in. Jaskier felt as if he was dancing on a knife’s edge, and he had no idea how to make this conversation end. He hadn’t been asked a direct question.

“Don’t you find?” Adeline asked, a caricature of curiosity in her voice and innocence on her face. “He is quite _obedient_ , is he not?”

“I have never found Jaskier to be obedient,” Geralt answered, before turning to Jaskier and catching his hand, which had been swatting insistently at Geralt’s arm. “ _What_ , Jaskier?”

“No? Perhaps you don’t know the proper--”

“That is enough,” Jaskier declared as he stood, pushing his chair back and letting it scrape across the floor. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, my dear sisters, Father. Geralt and I have an early day tomorrow, though, and really must see ourselves to bed. This has been delightful, and I can barely stand to wait for the next time we--”

“Julian, stop.”

Jaskier froze on his way to the door. He had managed to tug Geralt up and out of his chair on his way to leave, but now he stopped so abruptly that Geralt nearly knocked into him.

“Turn around.”

Jaskier turned to face his father, trying to ignore the curious look Geralt gave him. His father had not spoken for the entirety of the meal, had even ignored every bid Adeline’s husband had made to capture him in conversation. _Now_ was when he spoke up?

“Your witcher may retire. But you,” the elder Pankratz pointed at Jaskier, then to a doorway off the side of the dining hall. “I will speak to you. Alone.”

Jaskier nodded, then looked at Geralt. “I will be there soon. Martyn can guide you back.”

Geralt looked as if he wanted to argue, but he saw something in Jaskier’s face that gave him pause. Instead, he nodded once, then followed Martyn out the door. He didn’t even glance back once, which Jaskier was so thankful for, words couldn’t even describe it. Geralt was finally safe, far away from Jaskier’s sisters, and Jaskier could face whatever doom was waiting for him in his father’s office.

Jaskier took a deep breath and followed after his father. Once the door was closed behind him, it felt like Jaskier was in a whole different world. While the dining hall had been bright and airy, with large windows and big open spaces, Count Pankratz’s office was dim, closed in, and all dark woods and deep burgundys. The other corners of the estate held at least a few happy memories for Jaskier; while he had largely hated his upbringing, he had experienced _joy_ from time to time in the Pankratz halls. In his father’s study, however, the only memories Jaskier could bring to mind were those of punishments. 

Though he had finally surpassed his father in height and build, Jaskier still felt like a scared little boy, cowering before his father’s red, furious eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier’s father demanded, wheeling on Jaskier once he had stepped fully into the room.

“You invited me,” Jaskier answered, raising an eyebrow. Insolence, to hide his palpable fear.

“What are you doing here _in Lettenhove_?”

There was something there, in his expression, and realization dawned on Jaskier. Count Pancraktz was _afraid_ . He was afraid of _Jaskier_ , and what Jaskier’s very presence threatened. Jaskier wanted to laugh, but suddenly all he felt was pity for his father. While Jaskier’s world had grown larger than he had ever imagined, Count Pankratz remained stuck, overgrown in his fishbowl. Something eased inside Jaskier.

“I had business. I didn’t intend to come to the estate, but Essi was very… persuasive.” He could be outright, they all seemed to know now about Jaskier’s _gift_ , but there was something protective in leaving it unnamed. “We will be leaving tomorrow.”

“If you’ve returned to claim your inheritance I will not--”

“Do you honestly think I want anything to do with this place?” Jaskier cut him off, incredulous. “Do you really believe after all I went through here, that I would ever want to come back and be _Count_? I don’t claim my titles as it is!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you came back only to spite us all! Adeline and Iwon--”

“Oh, is _that_ his name? I could have sworn it was Wendelin, but that must have been the pig-faced boy she was convinced she would marry--”

“I will not have you make a mockery of my family!” the elder Pankratz bellowed, and Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut.

For a long, tense moment, all they did was stare at each other. Jaskier drew himself to his full height. He wasn’t afraid of this man anymore, not now that he had seen just how _scared_ he could make his father, simply by turning up again.

“I would never make a mockery of what used to be _mine_ ,” Jaskier replied, trying to sound unaffected, though his heart twinged with hurt. “I am no danger to Iwon and Adeline’s claim. If it were to fall to me, I would burn this estate to the ground without shedding a tear. It’s a shame I won’t get to see that, but, really, the work that would entail just isn’t worth it.” He shook his head slowly, his bitter jest igniting the fire in his father’s eyes again.

“You insolent, willful, empty-headed boy. You would have made a mockery of our name and you bring shame upon all of us. God cursed us all the day you were born, and we were foolish enough to _celebrate_. I am only glad that you had sense enough to take yourself away from us!”

Jaskier’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And you are a vile, weak-willed, _wretch_ of a man. To think I was afraid of you!” Jaskier huffed out a laugh, incredulous. “If I could have told the little boy you beat into submission that one day you would _cower_ at the sight of him, simply for darkening your doorstep, I wonder if you could have held the same power. Are you only imposing to those who are smaller than you? Is that how you found yourself in Lettenhove? A king amongst ants? No, Father, I do not dream of your _riches_ , I will not stake any claim to my birthrights. Go on play acting as if Iwon has always been your son, and we can both forget that this regrettable relationship ever existed.”

Turning on his heel, Jaskier strode to the door. His hand was on the knob when the elder Pankratz spoke again.

“Why did you come to Lettenhove, Julian?” he repeated.

Jaskier took a deep breath. “You know why. To find Lazuli.”

“This is a fool’s errand. If you even find that fae, he won't revoke it. You never should have come here.”

“At least, on that, we agree,” Jaskier replied. 

He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. All eyes were already upon him, and Jaskier knew they had been listening closely to every word they could distinguish. Jaskier brushed off his doublet and trousers, then gave the room a charming smile.

“If that will be all, I will be retiring as well. Lovely, as always, to catch up.”

He glided across the room and into the hallway. He made it halfway to his room before he was stopped by a hand on his arm. Jaskier turned to find Essi staring up at him.

“Julian, I didn’t mean to--”

Jaskier took her hand in his own. “I know you didn’t, Essi. And, please. Jaskier. My name is Jaskier now.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “It has been a delight to see you, but if all goes well, I should not return here. I hope my songs make it back to you, in consolation.” He gave her a grand, sweeping bow, and then pulled away to his room.

Geralt was waiting for him, of course, and leapt to his feet as Jaskier entered. Jaskier barely had the door closed behind him before Geralt was upon him, stopping just short of touching Jaskier and running his gaze over Jaskier’s body.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” Jaskier insisted, leaning forward to take Geralt’s face in his hands instead. “I’m so sorry about Adeline. I didn’t think to warn you about--”

“It’s fine, Jask,” Geralt said, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s. “I’ve had far worse questions at my expense.”

“Adeline is not exactly known for being the most… pleasant person to be around. I’m afraid overtaking her brother for heir has gone a bit to her head. As if it could get any bigger.” Jaskier snickered. One hand traveled to the back of Geralt’s neck, stroking his hair at the nape. “I hate this place. I wish we could leave. For once, I might be up before you are. Anything to get out of this nightmare.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, wrapping his arms around Jaskier. His grip was firm. Jaskier wasn’t going to be able to move. Anxiety prickled at the back of his neck. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Jaskier sighed. Had Geralt’s arms not been around him, he likely _would_ have bolted. Geralt knew to prepare for that. He was almost a bit ashamed at just how predictable he had become.

“I’ve had a very trying night, darling. I do think it’s time we turn in, forget that this whole mess ever happened.” He pushed against Geralt’s chest, making a bid to get away. Geralt didn’t budge. Jaskier met his eye, and thumbed the furrow of Geralt’s brow. “It’s nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

“You’re lying to me,” Geralt answered. “Your sister was talking around something tonight. All of them were. Every time they told you to do something, you did it. Adeline told you not to speak until asked a direct question, and I’ve _never_ known you to hold back. You didn’t say anything until _I_ asked you a direct question. The moment your father told you to stop, you did. With the bandit, you did everything _he_ told you to do, too. When you perform, when someone tells you to play something, you do. Immediately. You told me you didn’t like to be bossed, but the moment anyone tells you to do something, you do it. Without thought, even when you don’t want to.”

Jaskier’s breath was shaky. “Is there a question in there, Geralt?”

“You know there is, Jaskier. All I have asked of you is honesty, and you’ve denied me time and time again. You cannot keep asking me to walk into situations for you without _any_ information. I don’t--I can’t protect you if I don’t know _how_.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt’s face scrunched up with this admission. Unfortunately, this was a look Jaskier knew well. He was in pain, but trying to hide his grimace. Jaskier thumbed along Geralt’s cheekbone, feeling wholly wrecked himself. How could he deny Geralt this? Who was he to keep requesting his witcher’s help, without trusting him in return?

“I do what they tell me because I have no choice.” Jaskier pressed a finger to Geralt’s lips to silence the argument that was already coming. “Not a play on words, not being dramatic or defeatist. When someone gives me a command, I have no choice but to obey it; my body won’t let me do otherwise. I’ll. I’ll explain more and answer your questions, I promise I will. But not tonight. I can’t tonight.” He sighed, and pressed his forehead into Geralt’s chest. “It’s a curse, given to me as an infant by a fae named Lazuli. I want to find him. That is my business. That’s where we’re going tomorrow. To find Lazuli, and get him to take it back.”

Geralt was silent for a long, long time. Jaskier did not dare raise his head to watch his expression. Now, Jaskier was sure, Geralt would leave. He would decide that going to a faery court was entirely too much, too dangerous, and he would try to convince Jaskier not to go. And when Jaskier would not budge, he would leave, and Jaskier would face this on his own.

“Fae are tricky, Jaskier. He won’t just… take it back,” Geralt finally said, his voice low.

“I have to try. I can’t live like this. I have to try.”

Geralt hummed. Then he backed them up, keeping his arms tightly wound around Jaskier, and took them both to the bed. Geralt pulled away to undress Jaskier and, though it killed him to do it, Jaskier did not make a single dirty joke about it. Something about Geralt’s somber expression implored Jaskier to keep this a quiet, intimate moment. And intimate it was. Jaskier found his breath catching in his throat as Geralt undressed him carefully, placing gentle caresses here and there until Jaskier was only in his smallclothes.

At Geralt’s nudging, Jaskier climbed onto the bed. He sat in the middle, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His chin rested on his knees as he watched Geralt undress himself, then gather their clothes and put them away. There was something so careful about the way Geralt was moving. Jaskier’s heart felt warm and he so longed to touch this gentle, impressive man before him.

He could never have Geralt, not really. There would always be something wedged between them. But when Geralt came to him, pulling Jaskier to cuddle against him, as he pressed slow, soft kisses into Jaskier’s lips, Jaskier could pretend. He could pretend that he had Geralt’s love, and shared it with no other.

It was Jaskier’s favorite lie yet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i've had a really great day with some AWESOME news, plus this is like THE chapter that gave me the concept for it, so i was a touch excited to post it. to that end, here we have another chapter! two in one day! i hope y'all enjoy.

They stole away early in the morning, before the sun even crested over the horizon. It was so early, the estate was quiet. Even the cooks hadn’t yet risen to prepare breakfast.

Geralt and Jaskier moved silently through the house, lest they wake anyone, and even Roach seemed to understand the need for stealth, as she let them lead her away without so much as a sniff. They didn’t speak, and hardly even breathed, until they were safely hidden beneath the canopy of the forest.

“What are we meant to be looking for?” Jaskier asked, and though he knew they were at least a mile away from the estate, he still kept his voice low. The sun was just beginning to shine light, its rays scattered by the branches and leaves around them.

“Signs of fae activity. My medallion will vibrate when we’re near, and we’ll see… flowers. Mushrooms. Things will be growing just a bit too uniformly to be an accident.” Geralt shrugged, and he stopped at a low-hanging branch. “We will need to go deeper. We’ll leave Roach here.”

Jaskier nodded. He could still see the faint outline of Lettenhove’s walls on the horizon, but they were far enough that there was no chance of anyone stumbling upon the mare. She would be safe, and have plenty to munch on as she waited. Jaskier rubbed a hand over her neck and she snorted dismissively at him.

As they searched, Geralt would bark out instructions every so often.

“You’ll need to be polite, but you don’t want to thank them for anything, or they’ll take that as a sign you are now in their debt,” he said, and Jaskier nodded.

“If they offer you anything, you won’t want to accept it. Not food, drink, clothes, or anything else.” Jaskier hummed in return.

“They like music, and bards especially. They might ask you to play for them. It’s a trick. They’ll use it to trap you.”

It was comforting, really. Jaskier had no idea what to expect, and it was a relief that Geralt did. It seemed to bring Geralt some comfort as well, being able to pass on information to Jaskier. Jaskier could see the tense lines of Geralt’s shoulders, the way his muscles were flexing needlessly and his jaw was working. Geralt was nervous.

Jaskier pressed a hand to Geralt’s back, between his shoulder blades. Geralt looked at Jaskier curiously, but Jaskier only smiled back at him. He kept his hand there, though, until he felt the tension ease, just a little, from Geralt’s muscles.

They kept looking. It took hours of carefully combing through the trees until finally,  _ finally _ , Geralt’s medallion began to vibrate. The sun was high in the sky and Jaskier was beginning to feel hunger, but he pushed the feeling away in favor of scouring the ground for signs of fae activity.

“Geralt, what about that?” Jaskier asked.

He pointed at the line of flowers and mushrooms, a few meters ahead of them. The wildflowers were beautiful, all purples and blues and pinks and so much green, interrupted here and there with little sprouts of white mushrooms. The flowers were in clumps, some dragging out as wide as a meter, but every clump ended abruptly in a line poised between two large, thick-trunked trees. The line was too straight, too clean to be an accident.

Jaskier turned his attention to Geralt, and looked at his medallion pointedly. Jaskier could just barely see it vibrating. Geralt nodded, and wrapped a hand around his medallion. The witcher took a step forward, but before Jaskier could follow, he threw out a hand to stop him.

“Jaskier, I don’t think this is a--”

“How do I get through, Geralt?” Jaskier asked. He touched Geralt’s arm, lightly pushing it down, and stared at him beseechingly. “I have to do this.”

Geralt hesitated, searching Jaskier’s face for any sort of crack, but Jaskier knew there was nothing there but steely resolve. He had to do this. Geralt nodded, then took Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together and stepping toward the flowers.

“Geralt, no, you can’t--”

“I will not let you face this alone, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. His tone was decided, final, and he didn’t bother looking at Jaskier before he led them to the flowers. He stopped just before the line, and took a deep breath. “We should just need to walk through, and we’ll be in the Feywild. Are you  _ certain _ you want to do this?”

Jaskier didn’t answer him, there wasn’t any point. Instead he took a step forward, taking Geralt with him.

It happened so suddenly, Jaskier couldn’t even note the moment they passed through the plane. It only felt like taking a step forward, but suddenly his surroundings were different. The trees were larger, blocking out all sun, and their leaves and vines tendrilled down around him. The floor was littered with bright, impossibly bright flowers, many of colors Jaskier couldn’t name, and was sure he had never seen before. There was a living quality to everything around him, in a way that the forest on their own plane did not possess. 

Before them was an enormous, grand archway. Thin branches wove together to form the frame, and green, blue, and purple leaves clung all along the arch and hung down. Jaskier longed to touch it all. He felt the immense need to spread this grove’s beauty to his fingers, because his eyes alone could not take it.

He didn’t. Instead, he led them through the archway, and into the court, toward the music he heard in the distance.

The court itself was… unfathomable. Jaskier tried to keep his eyes forward, to focus on the fae in the center of the large, open grove--the queen?--but it was hard not to notice the beautiful, otherworldly creatures around him. Each one was a varying degree of human-like, but each one was ethereal.

All sound stopped as Jaskier and Geralt stepped through the archway into the grove. Even Jaskier, who flourished under attention, found himself resisting the urge to shrink back into himself. He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes and his steps stuttered, but he and Geralt continued on until they were before the queen.

She sat on a majestic throne of vines and bark, and though it had been carved into a seat, Jaskier was sure even her throne was as alive as anything else here. She looked inhuman--with large ears extending past her shoulders to a point, and long, swooping horns before a crown of flowers and leaves. Her face was pointed, from her chin, to her nose, to the edges of her eyes, a sharp elegance that should have made her look cruel or monstrous, but instead made her look striking and imposing and beautiful. Interest burned in the deep, deep green of her eyes, and Jaskier understood, immediately, how anyone could fall under her spell. If Jaskier wasn’t so clear on his goal, and his hand held so tightly by his witcher, Jaskier was certain he would have fallen, too.

“It is not often we get a human or a witcher here of their own volition, much less both at once,” the queen mused.

Jaskier fell into a sweeping bow, though he did not let go of Geralt’s hand. A half-breath later, he felt Geralt bend as well. When he rose, he put on his most charming smile.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Jaskier said. “Your court is beautiful; I am but a humble bard, and even with my skill in poetry, I do not believe I could capture the true nature of its beauty. Or yours, for that matter.”

The queen smiled, seemingly satisfied, and she raised a hand to her face. Her pointed fingers, almost talon-like, scraped gracefully along her cheek. “I am Ignea, Queen of this court. You,” she pointed a finger at Jaskier, “want something. What is it?”

Jaskier bowed his head again, if only to buy time to consider his words. “I am looking for a fae named Lazuli.”

The fae around them murmured amongst themselves, and Ignea’s eyebrows rose high on her face.

“What could you want with Lazuli?” she asked.

“Lazuli has given me a gift. I wish to return it.”

The murmuring around them grew louder. Geralt’s hand squeezed Jaskier’s, maybe in warning, but Jaskier did not tear his eyes away from the queen. Not until she held up a hand, silencing the chattering around them, and tilted her head pointedly to her right.

From the shadows stepped another fae. One Jaskier had seen so many times in his dreams, he was half convinced he was dreaming  _ now _ . His features were just as pointed as his queen’s, but while her skin was in hues of gold and browns, Lazuli was painted with blues and greens. What little light there was reflected off his face in a way that seemed almost metallic. There were no whites to his eyes, only a deep, deep black.

“Lazuli,” Jaskier said. He had intended to say so much more. He had a speech planned and everything, all the things he would want to say if he ever came face to face with the fae. As he looked upon Lazuli, though, his voice failed. All he could do was stare as the fae came closer.

“I remember you,” Lazuli said. His voice was deep, musical, a rumbling baritone that cut through the silence like a song. “You wailed so loud, I could hardly think. All hours of the night and day. You ran your mother ragged.”

Jaskier swallowed, the muscles in his jaw working hard to clench his teeth at the mention of Jaskier’s mother. “You made me obedient,” Jaskier answered.

Lazuli nodded. “Your mother begged me to take you. I only wanted you to stop, but she wanted you gone.”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, that’s not--she told me--she said she tried to stop you. That you made me obedient so you wouldn't hear me anymore.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears.  _ Had _ his mother tried to give him to the fae?

“Humans lie,” Lazuli snarled, and the other fae in the court voiced their displeasure, snarling incoherently at Jaskier. Jaskier glanced around at them, but the angry cacophony didn’t seem directed at  _ him _ so much, as humans in general. 

Queen Ignea held up her hand again, and silence overtook the grove once more.

“She brought you to the forest, placed you in a faery circle. She begged for someone to come, to take you, and I came. I don’t take infants, particularly not ones who cry as you did,” Lazuli said. 

Lazuli’s words made Jaskier feel hollow. Still, he focused on Lazuli’s inky black eyes, his face betraying no emotion.

“Obedience was a compromise.”

“She lied to me,” Jaskier breathed.

Lazuli’s smile was cruel. “You lie as she does.”

Jaskier blinked, but there was no point in arguing with the fae. He was right. How else had he survived this long, but by lying at every chance he could? How many half-truths had he told to avoid his curse? Jaskier built himself a home of deception and misdirection.

“My mother is dead,” he said instead.

“And now you are here to have her wishes undone.”

Lazuli was amused. His lips stayed quirked in that cruel smile, and a glimmer of humor shone in his dark eyes. Jaskier nodded.

“I do not take back my gifts, human. Why should I make an exception for you?” Lazuli asked.

“My life is not my own. At best, I am an accidental captive of other humans who would have me serve them. At worst, I am enslaved to their whims. My mother has trapped me with her lies and her cruelty. I wish to be free, for the first time in my life, to be my own person. I ask that you do not punish me for my actions as an infant, or the lies of my mother. Were we not both victims to her?” Jaskier asked, and though his hands shook, his voice was steady.

Something softened in Lazuli’s face.

“Humans lie,” Lazuli repeated, and though he pointed an accusing finger at Jaskier, this time he did not snarl. The court did not murmur in agreement. In fact, the grove seemed still around him. “You lie as she did.”

“She gave me no choice. Lying and tricks are all I have.”

Lazuli seemed to consider this. He stepped closer to Jaskier, and Jaskier did not move under his scrutiny. Lazuli circled him first, then circled Geralt. Geralt was just as stiff as Jaskier, and his grip remained firm on Jaskier’s hand. Lazuli stopped in front of Geralt, examining the witcher’s face as his head tilted to the side, and Geralt met his eye. Lazuli’s face broke into a wide, toothy grin.

“This one is yours,” Lazuli said, his face flicking back to Jaskier. “And  _ still _ you lie.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry. He tried, in vain, to rewet his lips, to speak, but Lazuli cut him off with a hand as soon as Jaskier’s mouth finally opened to speak.

“You will break the gift yourself.” Jaskier wanted to argue, but Lazuli’s hand was still raised. He had studied all he could of Seelie Court rules, and none of them implied that interruption was untoward, but Jaskier wasn’t willing to take a chance on that. “Tell your truths, and you will never be compelled to again.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened again, and he wanted to press more, to ask Lazuli what truths he  _ meant _ , but Lazuli turned on his heel and disappeared back into the grove. The stillness ended around them, and once again Jaskier could hear the chattering of the court’s fae. 

Ignea stood and strode toward them, and Jaskier could still clearly read the interest on her face. Her fingers reached out and the talon-like ends trailed across Jaskier’s cheek. They were not sharp, Jaskier was surprised to find.

“You have a beautiful face, and I suspect a beautiful voice. I would have you grace my court with your music,” Queen Ignea said, and Jaskier’s blood ran cold.

“You flatter him,” Geralt interrupted. Ignea’s eyes cut to the witcher curiously, clearly delighted that he was finally speaking. “Has he not been put through enough? He has been entertainment enough for the humans; do not ask it of him for your court.”

Ignea’s lips quirked in a small smile and she turned her attention to Geralt, though her fingers trailed down his chest rather than his face. “I see. He is yours, as well, mighty Witcher.” She tapped a finger against Geralt’s chest, just over his slowly beating heart, then drew away, back to her throne. Ignea sat herself upon it and flicked her fingers dismissively. “You may leave the way you came, before I am tempted to keep you both.”

Jaskier was glad for Geralt’s steady presence beside him, leading him out of the court and through the crossroads again. He moved as if he was in a trance, just barely managing to keep one foot in front of the other. The journey back felt longer, as if they had to traverse miles before finding the exit, and perhaps they had. Or, perhaps, it was simply an illusion sent to confuse Jaskier and allow the queen to keep him.

Still, at Geralt’s lead, they found themselves back in their own plane, stepping over the wildflowers at the entrance to the crossroads. It was dark now, though Jaskier still was unsure how long they had spent in the Feywild. Had it been minutes, or hours? It didn’t seem to matter, but Jaskier still found himself unsettled.

Geralt led them far away from the crossroads in silence. They returned to where they had tied up Roach, and Geralt led them farther still, until Jaskier could no longer see the walls of Lettenhove in the distance, and Geralt could no longer feel the thrum of magical, fae activity. The moon was high in the sky before they finally made camp, and Geralt barely had their bedrolls laid out before Jaskier was collapsing onto one.

Their camp was set up solely by Geralt as Jaskier curled his arms around his legs and stared. When Geralt joined Jaskier, Jaskier pressed his face into Geralt’s chest and let out a shuddering breath. He went boneless against his witcher, and Geralt lowered them both to the ground. Only once Geralt’s arms were safely wrapped around Jaskier’s body did Jaskier finally allow himself to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this art](https://www.deviantart.com/rossdraws/art/Dreamcatcher-818000154) by Ross Tran (rossdraws) gave me inspiration for Queen Ignea & is what i based her look on!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time! we go back to typical length with the next chapter.

It was almost a relief to travel east again. Jaskier didn’t have to carefully consider how he could lead Geralt in the direction he wanted without raising too much suspicion. Instead, he could simply allow the witcher to direct their travels and lead them in whatever direction seemed to suit Geralt at the time. It allowed Jaskier to follow blindly, trusting that Geralt had a plan, even one that was only as far as “Go to the next town for a contract.”

They managed nearly a week without discussing any matters of importance. If Geralt was waiting for Jaskier to open up, as Jaskier suspected he was, Geralt would be waiting for a long, long time. Jaskier had no intention of bringing to light the events of Lettenhove unless forced. He had gotten this far without betraying his secrets; a few days was nothing.

They were camping somewhere outside Kagen, near the Yaruga river. Jaskier had almost been expecting it--Geralt seemed to be braver outside, under the stars. Inside townships his footing was lost, and Jaskier was at a clear advantage. Being outside put them on Geralt’s terrain, and Geralt seemed to be able to handle clashes with words, Jaskier’s weapons, far easier there.

“Jaskier,” he began.

Jaskier already didn’t like this. The night was cold and dark, and he was close to the fire. So close, he had to keep turning his body, lest he burn. Jaskier continued playing his lute, but nodded his head.

“Jaskier, could you put it away?”

Jaskier bit his lip and stilled his hands, though he did not, in fact, put his instrument away. He felt it was far safer to keep it. They had a great deal to discuss, and Jaskier preferred to have something comforting to hold onto. A crutch, of sorts. He met Geralt’s amber eyes. He was safe, here, he knew. He could do this.

“Ask your questions, Geralt. I know I owe you that.”

Geralt hummed and nodded. “You have to do anything anyone commands?”

“Yes.”

“How does that work?”

Jaskier blew out a harsh breath, and shrugged his shoulders. “If I get a command, my body follows it. Tell me to sit down, and I sit down. I have… some level of control. I can interpret the commands in certain ways, but that’s imperfect and doesn’t always work. Vague commands, like shut up, can be satisfied easily. Specific commands, with time or goal limits, leave less wiggle room. Short ones are hard to avoid, like come here. Others, I can get around. Half do them, or bend the rules, but it takes… thought. And control. And a lot of cleverness.” He shrugged, helplessly. “It’s a bit of a fickle curse. Doesn’t seem to work well with vague-aries of language.”

Geralt hummed. “Have you… have you been commanded to do things you didn’t want to?”

“Geralt, come on,” Jaskier answered, rolling his eyes. “You’ve  _ seen me _ do things I didn’t want to do.”

“What was the worst?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”

Geralt sighed, but he nodded. “With your. Your lovers, did they--”

“At times. They don’t always know what they’re doing. I don’t usually tell anyone.” Jaskier shrugged, but Geralt looked pained.

“The countess?”

Jaskier bit his lip, and shrugged again. He was quiet for a long moment, looking for the words. A half truth, then. “She didn’t know. She didn't mean to.” 

What Jaskier didn’t say was that there were some questions better left unanswered. If the countess knew, maybe she would be good to him, protect him, even. Or maybe she wouldn’t. He could pretend, then, that his capture was an accident. That she did love him. That he wouldn’t have been kept if only he had told her the truth. It was easier that way.

“Have I--”

“No,” Jaskier insisted.

“You didn’t let me finish the question.”

Jaskier shook his head. “You want to know if you ever commanded me to do something I didn’t want to. Or if you ever trapped me with you. You haven’t. Nothing worth mentioning, anyway. Maybe a stray ‘Stop talking’ here or there. Nothing malicious, nothing that bound me to you. Nothing intimate.” He shook his head again, hoping that maybe if he kept talking, the deep lines on Geralt’s face would smooth out. “I’m with you because I choose to be. You’re the  _ only one _ that noticed I don’t like being told what to do. You’ve done your best, even without knowing. I won’t have you think badly on yourself because you might have triggered my obedience errantly.”

Geralt’s jaw moved like he wanted to dispute this, and he turned away from Jaskier, looking into the fire instead. He  _ didn’t _ argue, and for that, Jaskier was thankful. 

“Your family knows,” he finally said.

“They didn’t as I grew up. Only my mother did. She must have told them before she died.” Jaskier’s heart tightened at the thought of his mother. He wasn’t quite ready to confront the fact that she had lied to him all his life, nor the fact that she had done this to him. At least he knew, now. He knew where he stood with his family.

“It’s possible to break your curse, then.”

“I don’t know how.”

This was the thought that had been plaguing Jaskier the past week. It was all there before him. Lazuli made it seem as if Jaskier could now break his curse whenever he wanted, but Jaskier didn’t know  _ how _ he would do that. What truths did Lazuli want him to tell? The truth of his curse? He had already laid that out to Geralt, and Jaskier didn’t know who else mattered enough. What else could the fae want?

“We’ll find a way,” Geralt replied, nodding as if a decision had been made.

Jaskier watched him, mystified, as Geralt seemed to have declared that done with. As if Geralt  _ could _ help him. Nothing had changed, this was still Jaskier and his curse against the world. Even if Geralt wanted to help him, there was nothing Geralt could do.

“This isn’t a monster you can slay, Geralt,” Jaskier retorted, finally letting the anger of the past few decades color his words. “There’s nothing  _ you _ can do to fix this, nothing for you to put your silver sword through. Lazuli was being purposefully cryptic. There is no  _ fixing me _ . I will be obedient for the remainder of my life. I might as well get used to it.”

“No,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “We will find a way to break your curse. And I will protect you. You will not be enslaved to any whims, or accidentally held captive. Your life will be your own. I will see to it.”

Jaskier sighed, and pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. He was suddenly so, so tired. Tired of this conversation, tired of this life, tired of everything.

“What if I say no? What if I say I will do this on my own?” Jaskier said, a long while later. He dropped his hands and turned his eyes to Geralt. There was a challenge in his eyes. It wasn’t fair, but this was a test. He had to see what Geralt would do, what he would say.

Geralt sustained eye contact for a long time, but he was the first to break it. He looked back into the fire and suddenly Geralt looked just as tired as Jaskier felt. 

“I will not command you, Jask,” he answered. His shoulders slumped. “I won’t take away your choice. Not ever.”

Jaskier watched him closely, looking for any hint of a lie. He didn’t find it. Jaskier’s heart burned and swelled in his chest, and he found himself standing, crossing the short distance to his witcher, and climbing into Geralt’s lap. His legs wrapped around Geralt’s hips and his hands cradled his face, forcing Geralt to look up at him. Geralt’s arms wound loosely around Jaskier’s hips, holding him, but not restraining him.

Jaskier’s lips pressed softly upon Geralt’s brow, melting away his tension. He thumbed at Geralt’s cheekbones as he peppered kisses down the side of his face until finally capturing Geralt’s lips in his own. He kissed his witcher soundly, until they had no more breath to give each other, and only then did he pull away to touch their foreheads together.

“I believe you,” he breathed. “And I don’t want to do this alone.”

Jaskier knew, then, how to break the curse. Or he thought he did, anyway. Unfortunately, it was the one thing he couldn’t do without risking losing his witcher forever. Jaskier would always be trapped by Lazuli’s--his mother’s--gift. But for the first time, Jaskier felt as if he was safe. For the first time in his life, he felt hopeful. All because Geralt gave that to him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blink and you miss them references to suicidal ideation

The weeks went by, but Jaskier hardly noticed them.

There was a monotony to it all. A familiar pattern. They would come to a town, Geralt would take a contract, they would argue about whether or not Jaskier could come on the contract, and then Jaskier would usually follow Geralt on the contract, no matter the answer. Kill the beast, get the money, find another town. Jaskier would compose his songs, Geralt would roll his eyes, and sometimes they’d fall into bed together.

Now, Geralt noticed things. He sat closer as Jaskier performed, primed to call off any hecklers. He had never bossed Jaskier around when they were intimate, but now he was more wary of it at other times as well. Every time he started to say something to Jaskier, only to pause and restart, Jaskier’s entire chest felt warm with affection. The first few times, Jaskier kissed Geralt breathless, drinking in the way Geralt grew embarrassed and bashful under Jaskier’s attention and adoration. It made Geralt sheepish, though, and soon Jaskier learned to back off. Now, whenever Geralt caught himself, Jaskier reached out to touch him, either with a hand on the witcher’s shoulder, a press of their knees together, or a nudge with his hip. 

It took Jaskier a while to notice that something was going on. What Jaskier had thought was just idle traveling, he soon realized wasn’t the case at all. Geralt had brought them to every single township they could reach after they left Lettenhove. He had done so with more painstaking detail than Jaskier had seen him put into any other venture. 

Once Jaskier realized this, he then began to notice Geralt slipping away for about an hour, every time they first came to a town. Jaskier hadn’t thought anything of this before, as sometimes Geralt went off to inquire about contracts without Jaskier, but he had never done it  _ intentionally _ or  _ secretively _ like he was now.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked him in Mayena. Geralt’s face was as stoic as ever, but Jaskier saw something flash in his eyes, just for a moment, before it was gone again and Geralt shrugged.

“Going to talk to the alderman. See if there are any monsters here.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go with you.”

Geralt shook his head immediately. “No, you should go secure us a room at the inn. This won’t take long.”

“If it won’t take long, then surely I’ll make it go quicker, and then we both can get the room,” Jaskier argued. “Besides, I negotiate price better than you do, and with how often we’ve been staying in inns, we could use the extra coin.”

They had never stayed in inns as often as they had since leaving Lettenhove. At first, Jaskier had enjoyed it, had loved the hints of luxury they had been able to indulge in unlike ever before. This was what had tipped him off that they were stopping in every town, though. It wasn’t practical to stay in towns as frequently as they had, and the monster contracts were lacking. Jaskier had made far more money than he ever had before, but Geralt was growing restless and Jaskier was wanting for new material.

“No, this town looks busy,” Geralt lied. Geralt had so few tells for when he was lying, but Jaskier knew this was a lie. He knew Geralt. And, he could see for himself that the town did  _ not _ look particularly busy. “If we wait too long, there won’t be any rooms left. And I want a bath.”

He had wanted a bath in the last three towns, as well, and used that for an excuse for Jaskier to go on ahead. Jaskier huffed, but he knew better than to argue with Geralt now. If he was so insistent on this lie, Jaskier would have to tackle it from a different angle. Jaskier watched Geralt walk away. If Geralt were anyone else, Jaskier would take matters into his own hands and follow Geralt. As it was, though, following a witcher would be impossible.

Geralt slipped into a building--probably to see the alderman--and Jaskier huffed, finally turning toward the inn and stepping inside.

When Geralt returned, an hour later, Jaskier was sitting on the bed in their room. He had left instructions for the innkeeper to direct Geralt this way, and Geralt opened the door to their shared room with a raised eyebrow, silently questioning why Jaskier was  _ here _ , rather than down in the tavern making coin. Jaskier ignored it.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt hummed at him, then set about putting his things away. Jaskier watched him, watched the easy, comfortable way Geralt mixed his own belongings with Jaskier. It was almost domestic. Jaskier wasn’t sure when they had become so comfortable with each other, when they had developed such deeply rooted routines. It was the first time being with someone, reaching comfort with someone, put Jaskier’s mind at ease. And, yet, still it was tinged with  _ something _ . Their clothes and weapons and mundanity of their lives belonged together, but not their secrets.

“Are you looking for something?”

Geralt turned to Jaskier, his eyebrows furrowed and confusion in his eyes. “A place to keep my scabbard?” he answered, with just a hint of amusement.

“We’ve been in every town since the court. Every single one we’ve passed. Not a single night of camping in weeks, and I  _ know _ you’re not getting good contracts,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms and leveling Geralt’s amusement with a glare. “You’re sneaking off for at least an hour every time and you’re lying to me. Why? What have you been doing?”

Geralt was silent for a moment, just staring at Jaskier, then he turned and continued unpacking. Jaskier watched his back, which Geralt resolutely kept turned to him, and waited. He would speak. He would explain. 

“I’m not lying to you--”

“He says,  _ lying _ ,” Jaskier bit back.

“You lie to  _ me _ all the time.”

“I  _ can’t _ lie to you, remember? Obedience curse!”

“Obedience curse, not  _ honesty _ curse. You lie all the time, Jaskier, even Lazuli said so--”

“We’re not talking about  _ me _ right now, we’re talking--”

“We’re talking about both,” Geralt said, turning around. “You’ve been listless. Since Lettenhove. It’s like traveling with a ghost.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “I have not been  _ listless _ . I’ve been acting just the same--we argue, I perform, we fuck, all of which takes  _ enthusiam _ , thank you--are you saying traveling with me has been  _ boring _ ?”

Geralt shook his head. “The only time you argue now is when you want to go on dangerous contracts. When you’re on those contracts, you are underfoot and in the way, as if you  _ want _ to get hurt. You’ve so narrowly missed so many--” he cut himself off with a frustrated groan, and swiped his hand roughly across his stubble. “Your performances have been  _ less _ . I don’t know how to explain it. You get this far-off look on your face and you’re… dreamy, in a way. You go somewhere else.” He shook his head again, and leaned against the wall. “And when we fuck, you do the same thing. It’s a process, nothing more. You aren’t  _ there _ with me.”

Jaskier listened to all this, growing more and more agitated. He turned away from Geralt abruptly, his face pinching in his frustration. The worst part was that he couldn’t even argue against it. “I don’t see what any of that has to do with what  _ you’re  _ doing,” Jaskier grumbled.

“I’m looking for Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry. Of course. Of course Geralt was looking for Yennefer. Jaskier had made the mistake of thinking his witcher had moved on from all that, that the years they had spent together accounted for more than whatever pull Geralt and Yennefer had developed in the few days they knew each other. Jaskier stood up from the bed, abruptly, and flitted about the room, gathering his things. He was in such a frenzy he didn’t even notice Geralt moving toward him until Geralt had grabbed his arm.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Geralt asked, his voice breathy in his exasperation as he pulled Jaskier to a stop.

“I’m  _ leaving _ . Clearly if you want other company so badly--”

“That’s not what I--”

“Far be it for me to stop you--”

“Jaskier, would you just--”

“I just thought maybe I was important enough that you wouldn’t have dragged me along as consolation--”

“Jaskier,  _ shut up _ .”

Jaskier’s mouth closed with an audible click that was more Jaskier’s doing than the curse. The look he gave Geralt was so murderous, it must have made Jaskier’s very skin boil with how quickly Geralt let go of him. His hands went up, as if he was trying to convince Jaskier he meant no harm.

“Shit, Jask, I’m sorry, I didn’t-- Talk freely,” Geralt said.

Jaskier took a deep breath. “What do you want to say, then, Geralt?” he asked. He stepped out of Geralt’s reach, just to show he could. Jaskier had  _ some _ control here.

“I’m looking for Yennefer to help you,” Geralt started, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. “She might know something about how to break this. Give us somewhere to start. You’re not… yourself. I wanted her to help us find a direction to break this for you.”

There was so much earnestness in Geralt’s face. The corner of his eyes pinched, his mouth made a thin line, and his hands were held out in front of him, palms up. He was struggling, Jaskier realized, and trying hard to find the right words. Whatever had been wrong with Jaskier these past few weeks, Geralt had noticed. Geralt had noticed that Jaskier felt a little dimmer, a little more hopeless, a little more resigned to this being the rest of his life, and miserable because of it. He had noticed more than Jaskier did, and for that Jaskier found himself conflicted.

“So we’ve been going to every town so you can find her?” Jaskier finally asked.

He turned away from the weight of Geralt’s stare. He didn’t want this earnestness. He didn’t want to know that his curse mattered to someone else, to Geralt. It made the feelings he had been trying so hard to keep at arm’s length come closer, overtake him. Geralt wasn’t his. Even if Geralt had sought out Yennefer to help Jaskier, he still thought of Yennefer for help  _ first _ . Jaskier returned to perch on the bed, feeling empty, just barely held together by the thought,  _ He’s doing it for you _ .

“I’ve been asking around. No one had heard of her, until tonight. There’s a rumor of a sorceress that sounds like her in Yspaden, so we’ll head there.”

Jaskier gaped at him. He stared long enough that Geralt grew visibly uncomfortable, and took a step forward. Then another. Geralt lowered himself onto the bed and still Jaskier stared at him, until Geralt reached out a hand and tried to touch him.

“No,” Jaskier finally said, jerking away. Geralt’s hand froze, an eyebrow raised. “No, I’m not going to Yspaden.”

“Jaskier, be--”

“Be what, Geralt? Reasonable? No, I won’t. You heard Lazuli as well as I did. Her magic isn’t going to fix this, there’s no other direction. I have to find a way to break it, which if the past  _ entirety of my life _ isn’t evidence enough that it cannot be broken, I don’t know what would be. But I would really rather not go on a quest to find your sexy sorceress. If you want to go, fine, I won’t stop you. But you will not tell me where I am going next.”

Geralt sighed, and tried to touch Jaskier again. Though Jaskier stayed rigid, he did not pull away this time. Geralt’s hand started on his shoulder, then slid down to his forearm, then tugged Jaskier’s hand out. He held Jaskier’s hand between both of his own, tracing his thumbs over the veins and lines. They were silent for a long time, and when Geralt finally spoke again his voice was soft.

“I’m not abandoning you,” he said. Already, it was too much, and Jaskier’s eyes slipped down to their hands, rather than Geralt’s face. “I don’t want to go without you, but I think seeing Yennefer is a good idea. You said you didn’t know what Lazuli meant. Maybe she does. Or she can point us in the direction of someone who can.” He cupped Jaskier’s cheek, then tilted his face back up, forcing Jaskier to meet his eye again. “Please, Jaskier. I want you to come to Yspaden with me. If she’s no help, I’ll leave off.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, his jaw going rigid as he considered Geralt for a long moment. Then he nodded, just barely, a small enough gesture that had Geralt not been holding his face, he might have missed it.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmured, and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

It was too much, the way Geralt peppered Jaskier with soft, slow kisses. Jaskier felt like a raw, exposed nerve, and every gentle caress of his witcher against Jaskier’s body sent Jaskier ablaze with want, desire, and a blooming of affection Jaskier wanted so badly to dispel. How could Geralt hold him this way, as if Jaskier was precious to him? As if he didn’t know that Jaskier’s sun rose and set with Geralt?

Jaskier would follow Geralt off the edge of a cliff, if only Geralt promised he would take him there. And so, they journeyed to Yspaden. They camped and traversed and went at a breakneck pace. The closer they got, the more haggard Jaskier became, and he knew it wasn’t entirely because walking through the continent was grueling.

Geralt grew more hopeful, the closer they drew to the township. Jaskier tried to pretend it was out of hope for Jaskier. He knew it was because he felt himself drawing nearer and nearer to his sorceress. They would reunite, and Jaskier would be forgotten again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo so like, y'all ready for lucky number 13?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i purposefully space these so that this chapter would be lucky number 13? actually, no, but it's a cool coincidence, isn't it?

It was raining when they got to Yspaden. Downpouring, really. Jaskier was absolutely drenched, his clothes heavy with rain, completely waterlogged. All Jaskier wanted to do was find an inn and dry off, but Geralt would not be deterred. They had to find Yennefer, and they had to find her  _ right this moment _ .

“You know she’s only going to be livid that we dragged water into whatever noble’s house she commandeered,” Jaskier whined. 

His attempt to avoid this whole reunion was thinly veiled, he knew, but as Geralt had ignored his whinings and wheedlings over the last several  _ weeks _ they had been traveling, Jaskier didn’t think there was much point in trying to keep his goal a secret. They both knew what Jaskier was trying to avoid.

“She might have left before we got here. I need to know now so we can make another plan,” Geralt answered, trudging forward through the downpour. Even Roach seemed cross with him, and Jaskier couldn’t blame her. The man with the least sense seemed to be the one dragging this expedition along.

“Oh, one can hope,” Jaskier grumbled.

She hadn’t left, much to Jaskier’s chagrin. Some asking around in the town confirmed that, yes, the sorceress was still there, set up in that grand house at the top of the hill. Jaskier’s feet dragged as they made their way toward the “grand house” and it wasn’t entirely because of the blisters forming on his poor, damp feet.

It was only a small consolation that Geralt was just as grumpy as Jaskier. The door opened to reveal a servant, and Geralt barked out a “We’re here to see Yennefer,” before he pushed his way inside. The servant’s eyes went wide and she tried, in vain, to push the two men away, but Geralt did not back down. He fixed the poor girl with an unamused expression, and her face paled as she scurried off.

“Thank you!” Jaskier called after her, then crossed his arms and glared at Geralt. “That was  _ quite _ unnecessary and extremely rude,  _ Geralt _ . It’s your own fault you’re in this state, after all. We could have come back when we were a little less flooded, but  _ someone _ had to--”

“You wouldn’t have come otherwise,” Geralt cut him off, fixing Jaskier with a look that brokered no argument.

Jaskier held Geralt’s gaze for a long, almost uncomfortable moment. He had no argument, though. Geralt was right; Jaskier likely would have found a way to slip away and avoid this meeting. As it was, with Geralt single mindedly focused on this particular task, there was very little Jaskier could do  _ but _ follow the witcher to see the sorceress.

“Well, I must admit, you looked better in Rinde. Isn’t absence supposed to make the heart grow fonder?” a lilting voice sounded from a truly impressive staircase.

Yennefer was a vision, of course. She almost seemed to float down the stairs, the train of a long dress cascading behind her. Her makeup was all sharp lines and harsh edges, and Jaskier couldn’t help but stare as she drew closer. He was sure awe colored his face, while Yennefer’s face curled in disapproval.

“Yen. It’s good to see you,” Geralt said.

Jaskier turned to look at the witcher and, Gods, he meant it. His eyes were crinkled at the edges with a smile that didn’t quite touch his lips beyond the quirking of the corners, but was evident nonetheless. Geralt had turned to face her, and he looked so… open. Like he had actually missed this sorceress, and was happy to see her again. Jaskier hated it. And then promptly hated himself for the surge of pure jealousy that coursed through him.

“I see you’ve claimed another lord’s house as your own,” Jaskier finally said, just barely managing to un-grit his teeth enough to sound unaffected.

Yennefer turned her attention to Jaskier with an eyebrow raised. She reached the end of the stairs and leaned against the bannister, and her lips curled into a smirk. “Ah, Geralt. Collecting new pets, are we? Roach at least seems to prove useful, but I’m not sure what the function of a drowned rat is.”

Jaskier gaped at her and tried--and failed--to devise a response to this. He was just about to come up with something, when--

“Yen, we need your help.”

Jaskier’s mouth snapped closed. Well. It was probably for the best. His quip wasn’t very good, and it was best if Geralt saved him the embarrassment.

“Again? Is there any problem you two  _ can _ fix?” Yennefer asked, rolling her eyes. There was a moment's silence, then she gestured for them to follow her. “Come this way. You can change, and dry off,  _ then _ we’ll talk.”

It was hours later before they were all seated together again. Jaskier’s drenched clothes were hanging from a line in another room. Now, he wore a borrowed outfit. Even Geralt had been persuaded into changing out of his soaked through clothes. Jaskier’s eyes kept drawing back to the deep, rich red of the shirt, so unlike anything Geralt had ever worn before. Jaskier didn't like it.

He hadn’t been shown to his own room, but Jaskier was certain they’d be staying the night. Separately. In an attempt not to let himself dwell too much in how melancholy the idea of sleeping  _ alone _ left him, Jaskier was silent, nursing a goblet of wine that he could hardly even enjoy.

He noticed the way Geralt kept sending him furtive looks, though, and Yennefer flitted about the room, finishing whatever tasks important, powerful sorceresses did. If Jaskier was feeling more himself, his natural curiosity would have him cataloguing her every movement. He wouldn't write a song for her, likely ever, but there was something simply  _ fascinating _ about the way magic-users worked. He stared into his goblet instead.

“Yen,” Geralt finally broke the silence, his voice a warning. 

The warning was lost on Yennefer, who finished her task as if she was the only one in the room, but she did then come join them at the large table. Once seated, she tapped her nails slowly on the wood, her eyebrows high on her forehead as her free hand made a sweeping gesture.

“We’re here about--” Geralt paused. His jaw worked silently, as if he was working out the words he wanted to use, and picking them with excruciating consideration. Jaskier wished he would just spit it out. “Jaskier’s curse.”

“Ah. So you finally know,” Yennefer answered, bored. “I can’t get rid of it, if that’s what you’re here to ask me about. I don’t know of a single magic-user that could counteract the work of a fae.”

Geralt nodded, his eyebrows furrowed. He leaned in closer, placing a hand on the table, then turned his gaze to Jaskier. Jaskier, however, immediately looked away. Down at the table. He wasn’t loving how they were talking about Jaskier as if he wasn’t in the room, but he found himself disinclined to insert himself into the conversation. 

“We met the fae,” Geralt continued. “He said Jaskier could break the curse himself. ‘Tell your truths, and you will never be compelled to again’. Do you know what that means?”

Jaskier didn’t have to look up to feel Yennefer’s gaze turn to him. He felt hot, pinned down, and it was all he could do not to jump to his feet and flee. He would not look at her, though. Jaskier would not allow her to see past him again. Instead, Jaskier turned his head away, toward the door, fully aware he was now playing the part of a sullen teenager. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I have a feeling Jaskier knows,” Yennefer finally said.

Geralt turned his entire body to Jaskier, even shifting the chair more in his direction. There was no mistaking the fact that they were both now completely focused on Jaskier. Still, Jaskier did not look at them in return.

“While I am extremely talented in all things poetry and wordplay, I will admit that riddles are not exactly my forte. You seem to know so much more about them, why don’t  _ you _ tell us?” Jaskier asked the door.

“Tell the truth, bard.”

“I don’t care for you very much,” Jaskier said, fixing Yennefer with as withering a stare as he could muster. He knew he wasn’t the scariest person in the room--in fact, he was pretty sure, to Yennefer, some of the inanimate objects were more frightening than he was--but he felt a surge of pride as she at least looked somewhat  _ impressed _ with him. “I think you’re self-involved and badly mannered, and there’s very little you wouldn’t do to get more power. I am impressed by you, a little frightened, and largely in awe of your power, but I don’t care for you.”

Yennefer, to Jaskier’s surprise, laughed. Long and loud, as if she had never heard a better joke told. When she eventually settled enough to speak again, she pointed at Jaskier, a playful smile on her lips.

“You’ve gotten very good at avoiding that, haven’t you?” she asked, and she was still shaking a little with the last dregs of her laughter. “How many truths have you avoided? Hundreds, I’m sure. Clever, substituting it with one you don’t mind saying. No wonder the fae is making you work for it.”

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” Jaskier answered, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t quite squash the small smile plaguing his face, though, and damn her for making him find some humor in all this, as well.

“You know what it means?” Geralt asked.

Ah. Jaskier finally met Geralt’s eyes, which were narrowed. His lips were pressed tight together and his skin was taut around his deep frown. Jaskier sat as tall as he could, puffing out his chest in a show of defiance, as his lips stayed pressed together. He would not--could not--reveal anything to Geralt, not now, possibly not ever. Jaskier would stay obedient for the rest of his life, if it meant he could keep Geralt.

“He knows more than he’s telling you, at least,” Yennefer cut in, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You can have your quarrel later. I have news for you. I’ve heard some  _ interesting _ rumors lately.”

Geralt turned away from Jaskier as if it took a great deal of effort. His frown remained, but his eyebrows crept up his face and he tilted his head, silently urging Yennefer to continue. The way his eyes snuck furtive glances Jaskier’s way told Jaskier all he needed to know about what they would be discussing  _ later _ . Maybe it wasn’t too late for Jaskier to run away.

“There are some interesting tales about a bard traveling with a witcher. One who does everything he’s told.” Jaskier and Geralt both stiffened, and any attention Geralt was still paying Jaskier had shifted completely to Yennefer. “Apparently a young noble in Lettenhove has been spinning some tales. The description passes a  _ striking _ resemblance to you two.”

Jaskier let out a breath. “Fucking Adeline. I should have known she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

“And the word made it to Yspaden,” Geralt said.

“I’d imagine it’s reached most, if not all, of the continent. That, and word of Nilfgaard’s latest attempt at conquest have been all anyone around here can talk about,” Yennefer answered with a nod. “It’s the only reason I’m still here. I thought you might be looking for me. You two took your time getting here though; you almost missed me.”

“We can’t all travel by portal,” Geralt quipped. If it wasn’t for the tension in his shoulders, Jaskier would have almost mistook that for a joke.

Yennefer’s answering nod was curt, and she rose to her feet. “I wouldn’t recommend staying here. The lord will be returning soon, and we didn’t leave on the best of terms. I can’t imagine any guests of mine would be much cared for, and I’m leaving now. I’d offer you a portal somewhere, but I think we’re quite imbalanced in terms of payment, currently, due to the information I just gave you.” She returned to her work, which Jaskier belatedly realized was packing up her belongings, and turned her back on the men. “I trust you can find your own way out.”

Jaskier gathered his belongings--his clothes still soaking--in a daze. He hardly registered time until they were out of the lord’s home and back out on the road.

Geralt appeared to be trapped in musings of his own. The witcher was so frequently quiet, but this silence was  _ different _ , Jaskier knew, and not only because Jaskier knew him well enough to know that Geralt had questions for Jaskier. 

The sun was low in the sky, now, just below the still ominous looking clouds. Everything was painted in shades of orange as Geralt led them deeper into the forest. It was dryer here, though the air was muggy enough to make Jaskier feel choked. He didn’t dare complain, not when Geralt’s shoulders held so tight. Geralt found a spot that must have suited his criteria, and without preamble, stopped and set up camp.

Jaskier tried to help, but Geralt moved with a single minded focus, to the point of once taking the bedrolls  _ out of Jaskier’s hands _ and setting them on the ground himself. Fine. If Geralt insisted on handling everything, who was Jaskier to stop him? Instead, the bard sat himself upon the now laid-out bedroll and plucked out a tune on his lute.

It was nearly two hours later when Geralt finally sat down as well. He had completed every task, even the arduous one of finding enough dry wood to build a modest fire, and now their bellies were full of roasted rabbit. Jaskier knew he was being stared at long before he finally put down his lute with a sigh and met Geralt’s gaze.

“Have we finally reached the portion of the night where we use our words?” Jaskier bit out.

“You know how to break the curse.” It wasn’t a question, so Jaskier didn’t deign it with an answer. He only shrugged his shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t  _ know _ how to break the curse,” Jaskier corrected. “I have a guess, based on… context. The other things Lazuli said. A hunch, nothing more.”

“What is it?”

“No.”

Geralt’s eyes were suddenly fiery, and he stood in his anger. Jaskier did not shrink away. They could do this song and dance as many times as Geralt wanted, but it would never incite the reaction Geralt so clearly expected.

“So you would rather live your life a prisoner than  _ try _ to fix it?” Geralt spat when his display of physical intimidation did nothing to move Jaskier.

“I  _ have _ tried to fix it,” Jaskier answered, his voice tight. “I’ve been trying my whole life to deal with it, to find ways around it, to fix it. Lazuli was my last shot. Now, I’ve resigned myself to it. I’ve lasted this long, what’s the rest of my life? I’ve gotten so good at it.”

Geralt was shaking his head long before Jaskier finished speaking. “That’s not good enough, Jask. You have an idea. We should try it.”

“ _ We _ aren’t doing anything.  _ I’m _ deciding that I’m done. This is the hand I was dealt, so I’m going to continue to play it.”

“So you’ve just given up hope?” Geralt said. He stepped closer to Jaskier, and Jaskier had to crane his neck to keep eye contact. “Lazuli gave you an answer, one which you apparently  _ understood _ , and now you’re no longer interested in doing anything?”

“Lazuli gave me a  _ choice _ ,” Jaskier answered, finally standing up so he could meet Geralt on equal ground. “He gave me a choice, and it’s one that I’m not willing to make. Tell my truth. What if I don’t  _ want _ to tell my truth, Geralt? What if it isn’t fucking worth it?”

“And it’s worth  _ this _ ?” Geralt’s arms flew out to his sides, gesturing broadly at something. “People know now, Jaskier. Your sister told. How long will it take before someone recognizes who you are, recognizes that they can control you, and uses that against you?”

Jaskier scoffed. “It’s not the first time that’s happened, Geralt!”

“But it would be the first time they  _ knew _ , though, wouldn’t it? Really knew? Adeline was so quick to try to tell  _ me _ how to control you, and she disdains witchers. Are you really naive enough to believe she wouldn't include  _ that _ particular instruction when bending the ear of some noble?” Geralt’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, his mouth curled into a snarl. “You’re a lot of things, Jaskier, but I didn’t think you were  _ stupid. _ ”

Anger, true anger, flared up inside Jaskier, and he shoved Geralt’s chest. It was ineffective; a human pushing a witcher did little more than bruise the human’s ego, but in terms of expressing his anger, it was effective. Geralt’s jaw jutted out and his hands clenched into fists against his torso as Jaskier stepped closer and jabbed a finger into Geralt’s collarbone.

“ _ Do not _ presume to educate me on my own sister, Geralt,” Jaskier snapped, jabbing his finger into Geralt’s collarbone a second time. “I guarantee I have far more experience navigating  _ my life _ than you do.”

“Then stop playing dumb!”

“You’re afraid, then? You’re afraid that something will happen to me because someone recognizes us and then, what? You’ll feel  _ guilty _ ?”

“This isn’t about my guilt! This is about your  _ safety _ .”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, stepping away from Geralt and turning toward the fire. “I can protect myself, Geralt. If you wanted to be my knight in shining armor, you should have at least buffed yours up.”

Geralt took Jaskier’s shoulders, roughly turning him back so they faced each other. Geralt’s mouth was curled into a snarl and his fingers dug into Jaskier’s skin, hard enough to hurt, but Jaskier could not-- _ would _ not--make a sound to stop him.

“You’re in  _ danger _ when you’re with me--”

“--I’m always in danger when I travel with a  _ monster hunter _ \--”

“I can protect you from monsters! I can’t protect you from humans who would do you harm! Not now--not now that they  _ know _ !”

Geralt’s voice was so loud as he yelled at Jaskier, Jaskier was certain they had scared off any wildlife for miles. Even Roach was stamping her feet against the dirt impatiently, as if they were inconveniencing her. It was a good thing Geralt had already hunted their dinner.

“Then what,” Jaskier finally said, his voice soft and even and tight, as he slowly pried Geralt’s fingers off one arm, “do you expect me to do now?”

“I expect you to break your curse.” Geralt’s voice was lower, but still just as dangerous.

“No.”

There was that fire again. If Jaskier was a lesser man, one who didn’t know Geralt as well as he did, maybe it would have set Jaskier on fire. Geralt was dangerous like this, and he knew anyone else would have bent under the witcher’s ire. Jaskier did not care.

“Then you cannot travel with me anymore.”

Jaskier’s mouth fell open. Of all the things he expected Geralt to say, that hadn’t even made the list. It was mostly baffling because Jaskier wasn’t sure where, exactly, Geralt’s head had gone to think that was a deal Jaskier would ever agree to. Jaskier pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

“Those are  _ hardly _ my only two options. Did you forget the part where I have just as much say, if not  _ more _ , as you do in where I go? I’ve followed you on this quest for Yennefer, and now I will not be told how to handle my own curse when we’re  _ finally _ about to get back on the Path. You’re ridiculous, Geralt. Absolutely ridiculous.” Jaskier scoffed again, as if this was amusing to him, and shook his head for good measure.

Geralt considered him for a long moment. Something hard set in his face, and Jaskier felt a sliver of fear raise the hair on the back of his neck. He didn’t know how to explain it, but Jaskier suddenly knew he was losing this fight. 

"Jaskier, you can’t follow me. You have to stay here." There was that  _ tone _ again. The one that left no room for argument.

"Like hell I do, Geralt!” Jaskier snapped. He had never been very good at heeding warnings. “You can't just-just cast me aside when I don’t do what you want. It doesn't work like that!"

Geralt sighed heavily, and looked up at the sky. He looked at the moon for a long time, his expression growing curious. When he returned to Jaskier, Jaskier could see the guilt written on his face. It looked like pain, a grimace. Jaskiers heart twitched painfully.

"Geralt, no, you can't--" Jaskier started, only to be cut off.

"Jaskier, stay here until dawn."

Jaskiers eyes went wide. He looked down at his feet and tried, he tried so hard, to move forward, to close the gap between him and Geralt. His foot lifted off the ground, but would not move further. He stamped it back down in the same exact spot, ineffectually, and leaned forward. His body went without fight, but his feet would not move. Jaskier turned his gaze back to Geralt, feeling wild, betrayed, completely powerless.

"Geralt, no! You can't! You said--you said you wouldn’t do this! You said you wouldn’t take away my choice!" Jaskier pleaded, his voice growing louder, more desperate as he continued.

Geralt shook his head and looked down at his feet. "I have to, Jaskier. It's the only way to keep you safe."

"No! Geralt, please! I wont--I’ll--I’ll be good! I’ll be so careful! Don't leave me! You can't just leave me here!"

But Geralt was already turning away. Jaskiers pleas grew more frantic, more anguished, and he tried so hard to follow his witcher, to no avail. The curse would not let him, not until dawn. Geralt packed up his belongings as fast as he could, readying Roach.

"Geralt!" Jaskiers voice broke. He didn't know when he had started crying, but his voice was hoarse with it now. The tears fell, hot and angry, down his face. "You can't do this! I trusted you! You-you whoreson! You traitor! You  _ monster _ ! You promised me you'd always give me a choice!"

"Goodbye, Jaskier," Geralt said.

Had Jaskier not been screaming, pleading with his witcher, he would have noted the sorrow making Geralt’s voice thick, and maybe would have backed off. He heard it, but it only fueled his anger, his hurt. Jaskier fell to his knees--at least the curse would grant him that much--and pounded his fists on the ground.

"Come back! You can't do this to me! You promised! You promised me! I  _ believed _ you!" Jaskier screamed after him.

And that was the worst part of it. Jaskier had believed Geralt; Jaskier had trusted him. Everyone took advantage eventually, once they realized what they held in their hands. Jaskier’s wasted heart had gotten itself broken again. Somehow, this was worse than the other betrayals.

All Jaskier could do now was watch. He watched Geralt and Roach retreat into the forest. His face felt hot and swollen and his throat hurt from his begging. His legs still would not move. Jaskier kneeled there as his body wracked with sobs, until there was nothing left but the tremble of his muscles. Eventually, he couldn’t even whimper, just stared at the dirt before him, the lines his clawing fingers had made.

When the sun peeked out over the horizon, Jaskier pulled himself to his feet and took a tentative step forward. He met no resistance. He met no resistance, but Geralt was gone, hours gone. Jaskier had no hope of finding him now, and Geralt would hear him from a mile away.

He didn’t know why he was surprised. Jaskier was made to be left; he had designed it that way himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, while writing: ....  
> me: well, it isn't on a mountain


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: (many) mentions of war & a brief reference to torture

In the tavern in Tridam Jaskier played for only about half an hour before the crowd threw food at him and told him to cut out the maudlin crap. He couldn't blame them; it was hard to focus on singing of the might of the White Wolf, when Jaskier's wounds were still such a raw edge. He tried to change his tune, play happier songs, and his audience accepted it, though they did not tip him well enough to afford more than a bowl of stew. Perhaps they could spot his fraudulent smile, and the way it didn't quite reach his eyes. Maybe he was lacking charm now.

In Prana he found a lover. A beautiful man, with red, curly hair and a beard long enough for Jaskier to run his fingers through it. He told Jaskier exactly where he wanted him to be, exactly what he wanted Jaskier to do. Jaskier accepted it, allowing himself to be moved and bossed. There was a simplicity in it all, and he found himself almost comfortable with the tension in his muscles at each order. At least it was familiar. The man wasn't much for pillow talk, exactly, and fell asleep soon after they finished. The next morning, as he dressed, he was far more chatty.

"Where did you say you were headed?" he asked Jaskier as he tied up his trousers.

What was his name again? Rognir? Radek? It escaped Jaskier, but Jaskier was pretty sure that his own name had escaped his companion as well. At least they had that in common.

"South. Toward Sodden. Bards do better in big cities, after all. More coin to be made."

The man hummed, and Jaskier's heart ached. How silly, for something as simple as a hum to render him weak to the affections of his heart. Jaskier didn't have time for this. He pushed himself up in the bed, then turned to retrieve his own trousers.

"I'd be careful that way, if I were you. I’ve heard word of Nilfgaard moving north."

Jaskier shrugged his shoulders. "It will take them ages to make it that far north, surely. Last I heard, they were still in Assengard. Not exactly near to Sodden."

He stood, and turned to his companion just in time to see him shake his head. Then he pulled his shirt back on--a shame, to hide all that chest hair, in a shirt so stiff--and shrugged his shoulders.

"I've heard they're as far as Hochebuz." His eyes swept over the room and he retrieved a discarded purse.

"I'm sure Cintra’s army will sack them before they get too far. This is hardly the first time Nilfgaard has grown too big for its britches. The rest of the continent will set them straight."

Jaskier's companion shrugged again, his hand on the door. "Suit yourself."

He said this in lieu of a goodbye. Normally, Jaskier would have rolled his eyes, commented to himself on how rude that was, to not even say goodbye to the person you just spent the night with. Jaskier was relieved, though. Relieved that the man wanted to leave, and with haste, at that. Yes, he would suit himself.

Jaskier "suited himself" in Vizima through the winter. The lady of a grand court was quite taken with him, and begged her lordly husband to allow Jaskier to grace their court. Jaskier couldn't quite tell what, exactly, she was so taken with, as even he could admit that he quickly wore out his welcome among his audiences. The lady, Amelie seemed to enjoy his songs of heartbreak, however, and begged him to play for the rest of her ladies at every opportunity. It was cathartic, in a way. He had rid himself of his own tears, but whenever he saw the misty look in the eyes of the ladies he played for, he could almost feel it himself. Every time, he could breathe just a little easier. When he closed his eyes, he still saw amber eyes staring at him, but it didn't hurt as much. It only filled him with a sense of longing, which Jaskier could deal with. He had grown familiar with that particular feeling, after all these years.

In Maribor, whispers of Nilfgaard’s advance continued. People spoke in hushed voices, largely about how they had thought the winter would have slowed them down, but seemed to have only made them stronger. They were advancing on Cintra proper, though, and surely Cintra would put them back in their place.

Maribor wasn’t great for making money, but after Jaskier’s winter at court, his purse was full and he could afford a few duds to try out new material. The songs weren’t as popular as his songs about the White Wolf, but he wasn’t expecting them to be. Not everyone cared for songs of heartbreak, but betrayal seemed to at least be a uniting thread.

Jaskier heard tell of a witcher in Aldesberg. He traveled there as fast as he could, but the alderman told Jaskier, with an incredulous eyebrow raised, that he had just missed the white haired beast. The witcher had brought the alderman the head of the selkiemore just that morning, and hightailed it out of town only an hour before Jaskier made it there.

The same thing happened in Lyria and Scala, and by the time it happened in Kagen, Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be surprised anymore. It was no longer a coincidence that he was missing Geralt; it was an intention.

Jaskier curbed himself north as news of Nilfgaard’s war chased at his coattails. Everyone who could, it seemed, was moving north, trying to escape the bloodshed. Freedom fighters everywhere talked a big game, but when a new traveler strode into town with tales of Nilfgaard’s victories, every one of them paled and sunk into their drinks. 

“You sing songs of the White Wolf,” Jaskier’s bed partner in Mayena said to him, her long nails trailing along his bare shoulder in a way that made him shiver.

“On occasion. Can’t stay on one subject for too long, before people grow tired of the same songs,” Jaskier deflected, and he took her hand to press a kiss along her fingertips. She giggled, but would not be deterred.

“Have you any new ones? What has he fought lately?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that for you.” The bed suddenly felt cold, unwelcoming, and Jaskier pushed himself to a seat. “I haven’t traveled with Geralt of Rivia for quite some time. Almost a year, now.”

He pulled on his smallclothes and trousers, and tried not to cringe as her fingers trailed along his back.

“I’ve heard rumors. Of a bard that traveled with a witcher.” Jaskier felt a chill run down his spine in a different way. He kept his movements paced as he pulled his shirt over his head. “The bard does everything you ask him to.”

Jaskier fixed her with a rueful smile, then turned to pull on his boots. “Some rumors are just that: rumors,” he said, gathering the rest of his belongings in his hand. “This has been lovely, but I really must take my leave.” He took her hand, though everything in him urged him to recoil, to slink away, to get to safety. Instead, Jaskier pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Remember me fondly?”

If she responded, Jaskier didn’t know, he was out of the room so fast. On to the next town. And the next. And the next.

Cintra fell when Jaskier was in Dorian. He stayed there a full week, his fingers twitching the entire time, trying to decide what to do, where to go. Overnight, it was as if the town was haunted. Routines and work went about as normal, but the chatter was gone, and a thin veneer of gray seemed to settle over everything. Jaskier couldn’t stay here, he knew that. The smart option would be to go north, to avoid Nilfgaard’s advancing forces. 

Jaskier went south, toward Cintra.

Geralt’s child surprise had been in Cintra. Though Jaskier himself had no attachment to the child, had never even met the child, there was still something inside him screaming that he had to get there, to make sure they were safe. He refused to believe they were already dead. If they had already died, then all hope would be lost, for Jaskier, and perhaps even for Geralt and the continent.

A small, quiet part of Jaskier hoped that if he made it to Cintra in time, and found the child surprise, he could find Geralt, too. It was selfish of him, he knew, and he tempered it only with the fact that he truly did want to help, and this felt like an actionable way to help. He had been listless and without direction since he and Geralt had parted. This gave him a direction.

The direction brought him to a tavern in Dillingen. Coin had been scarce, but usually barkeeps were willing to put him up in exchange for an evening of song. If he helped a little here and there, they’d throw him a hot meal. The tips were bad, near nonexistent, but Jaskier wasn’t surprised. War seemed to make people hold onto their coin just a little tighter.

“I thank you all for being such a wonderful audience,” Jaskier said with a flourishing bow, only to be met with weak, scattered applause. “I must take my leave of you now. I hope we all meet again someday soon.”

He made his way to the bar, landing a few coins on the table in exchange for an ale. It tasted like cold piss, but Jaskier couldn’t quite bring himself to put it away. He had paid for it, after all. Someone touched his shoulder.

“Sorry, love,” Jaskier said, not bothering to turn around. “Show’s over. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“You can leave with us, nice and easy, or we can make a scene.”

The voice was deeper and gruffer than Jaskier expected. He turned in his seat to see two Nilfgaardian soldiers before him. A quick glance around confirmed that the entire tavern was turned in their direction, and every face Jaskier could see looked petrified. Jaskier felt pretty petrified himself. Every instinct in him told him to run, to get far away from these soldiers, but how far would he honestly get?

Jaskier nodded once, took his ale and downed it all in one, continuous gulp, and allowed the soldiers to take him.

“I get the distinct feeling you think I’m someone that I’m not,” Jaskier argued, as they sat him in a chair, deep in the basement of a modest castle. If castles could be modest.

The soldiers did not reply, though one did roll his eyes. At least they were listening, even if they did not rise to his bait. There wasn’t much of a point of keeping up the arguing and annoying he had done thus far, though he had to admit he was… curious. The chair he sat in was a fine one, with cushions and all, and steel manacles affixed to it, which his wrists were now bound by. The table in front of him was grand, with ornate carvings, and though he was undoubtedly in the dungeons, there were little touches of elegance here and there.

Likely, the Nilfgaardians would kill him once they realized they only had Jaskier, rather than someone important, but there were far more uncomfortable places to be held.

He was left waiting, alone, for a long time. So long he had started humming, testing the parameters of his bindings--the chair tilted backward, so it was moveable, but made of a thick wood that would be hard to break--and coming up with wild conjectures for what, exactly, he was doing there. Who did they think he was? Some noble with power and lands? Well, he had divested himself of all that. Someone with information? Unlikely, unless they wanted to know the lyrics to all of his songs and where the best brothels in various towns were. Truly, they must have just mixed him up for someone far more important.

It wasn’t until a tall, thin, blonde man walked in that Jaskier started to feel nervous. The man had a proud air about him, and Jaskier was suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge that this was _bad_. Very, very bad. Either he had a particularly proud lower level officer before him, or he had a rightly proud higher level officer before him. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

“Bard,” the man greeted. “I’m Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. You may refer to me as Cahir.” He took a seat at the other end of the table. “You have some information I want.”

“No, I’m quite certain I don’t,” Jaskier answered. “I’m only a bard, nothing more, and I’m afraid the best information I could give you is possibly best lute care or how to tell if a woman who’s giving you bedroom eyes is married, and whether or not she’s worth it.”

Cahir’s eyebrow quirked, but otherwise his face remained stoic. “I’m not interested in your profession. I’m interested in the company you keep.”

Jaskier’s throat dried. It took him a few hard swallows before he felt as if he could speak again without betraying anything. “I think you’ll notice that I was alone when your _fine men_ picked me up.”

“I want to know the location of Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier sighed. “Again, I think you’ll notice that I was _alone_ when you took me from that tavern.”

“I’ve heard interesting tales around these parts,” Cahir said, tapping his fingers on the table. He looked off, just to the left of Jaskier’s head. “You are a bard that goes by the name of Jaskier. Your given name, however, is Julien Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Though, I learned recently that a Viscountess by the name of Adeline and her husband are to inherit the title and lands that come with it upon the death of the current Count of Lettenhove.”

Jaskier furrowed his eyebrows, watching Cahir’s fingers as they tapped an easy, unhurried beat. “I hardly think familial political squabbles of a minor town would be considered _interesting_ to the conquering Nilfgaardian army. If you want my blessing to invade, by all means, go ahead. As you have heard, I have been disinherited,” Jaskier smirked, as if his heart wasn’t pounding away in his chest.

“That’s not the interesting part,” Cahir answered, smirking back and finally meeting Jaskier’s eye. “I’ve already met the Viscountess. She had quite a lot to say about her disinherited brother. Including your choice of companion _and_ a very interesting gift given to you by a fae.”

Jaskier tried very hard to keep his face neutral. This could still be a trick. He could still be missing information. It would not do to give anything away now.

“Stick out your tongue,” Cahir ordered, and Jaskier did. Cahir’s eyebrow raised. “Put your tongue away, and touch your nose.” This, Jaskier tried, but with his bound hands, all he could do was strain his wrist against the manacle and bend himself forward to awkwardly, so awkwardly, press his nose against his finger. “Stop, and sit back up.”

Jaskier faced him again, his jaw set and his eyes ablaze. This was far worse than he had anticipated, all because Adeline had a grudge.

“Very interesting indeed.” Cahir’s smile was cruel, and Jaskier would have given anything to smack it off his face. “Tell me, where is Geralt of Rivia?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now, now, Jaskier. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?” Cahir frowned, but his voice was still amused.

“We’ve already established that I can’t. I haven’t seen Geralt in over a year now. Last I heard of him was over nine months ago in Kagen. He could be _anywhere_ on the continent now. Asking me questions about him is useless at _best_.” He would have gestured extravagantly to make this particular point, if only he had the mobility currently. As it was, Jaskier could only roll his eyes, with feeling, and his head with it.

Cahir ran his fingers over his chin. There wasn’t a beard there, and Jaskier had half a mind to tell him that he looked ridiculous, but this wasn’t exactly the situation to press his luck in. 

“I believe you,” Cahir finally answered, and Jaskier resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. How _generous_ of Cahir. “I still think you can be of some use to me, though. It’s so rare that I can find such an _obedient_ soldier.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not a Nilfgaardian soldier,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m not a soldier, period. I’ll be no help in conquering cities.”

Cahir laughed and shook his head. “Not to worry, bard. I have a much more special task for you. So much more important. You should feel honored.”

The smile Cahir gave Jaskier was proud, as if he truly was going to honor Jaskier. Jaskier grimaced in response, and tensed his body, as if that would protect him from whatever blow was to come.

“Find the witcher and the princess.” Jaskier’s eyes grew wide and he shook his head, as if shaking his head fast enough would stop Cahir from speaking. It didn’t work, and Cahir continued on, “As soon as you and the witcher are alone, kill him with whatever weapon you can find.”

“No! _Stop_ it!” Jaskier demanded, trying futilely to free himself of the manacles. It wasn’t working, it only made the steel cut into his skin, but still he tried. The chair was heavier than he thought, and all he could do was rock it back and forth, barely lifting the legs off the floor. “I won’t do it! This won’t work!”

“It will. You do everything you’re told, whether you want to or not,” Cahir answered, unbothered. “Do whatever you can to kill him, and bring the princess back here. Do not tell anyone of this plan.”

He stood up, unmoved by the hot, angry tears streaming down Jaskier’s face or the way Jaskier continued to struggle. It didn’t matter, Jaskier knew. He already had his orders, and Cahir had been exceptionally specific.

“We will draw the witcher back. Word has already spread that we have his bard; it won’t take long before he tries to free you, if your sister’s information is accurate. When we release you, carry out our plan.” He wiped off his pants, and gave Jaskier a pitying gaze. “Unfortunately, it would look too suspicious if you came out of here looking as if nothing had happened. So I do apologize for this, and I hope you know that Nilfgaard appreciates your service to the emperor.”

Jaskier stared up at Cahir blankly as he exited the room. He blinked as the guards advanced on him, taking him away from the ornate table, the solid chair with the cushions, and into his own cell where he was shackled to the wall. 

He lost time, after that. It didn't much matter if he was there for hours, or days, or weeks. It felt like years. It felt like one bruise bled into the next, one humiliation topped by another. It turned out the guards knew about his _gift_ as well. Jaskier had always been an oddity or a delight, depending on the partner. He had never been a joke before.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of torture/beatings, canon-typical violence

Something was different. 

When Jaskier woke, his body stiff and his joints aching, the dungeon was quiet. In the days--had it only been days?--since he had been imprisoned, the dungeon was constantly alive with noise. Guards everywhere, chatting as loud as they pleased, at all hours. Jaskier had been unable to sleep soundly, not that he would have, being bound to the wall. 

Now, though, when Jaskier craned his neck to see beyond his small field of vision, he couldn’t see a single guard. No one was talking, there were no footsteps echoing, Jaskier couldn’t even hear breathing other than his own. He sagged in relief for a moment, only a moment, before he noticed  _ other _ sounds. Far away sounds. A struggle happening, elsewhere. There was distant yelling and every so often a clattering of metal on stone.

What was happening? Where was everyone? He blinked as he glanced around his cell, as if that would give him any hints, but inevitably he found nothing. All he could do was wait.

No sooner than he had decided that, did the door to the dungeon slam open. Footsteps approached him, and Jaskier braced himself. Cahir came into view, a mage beside him with rich dark skin and a long, sweeping cloak. If she hadn’t come with Cahir, and hadn’t snarled at Jaskier disdainfully, he might have called her beautiful.

“He finally came for you,” Cahir said, sounding pleased. 

Cahir unlocked Jaskier’s cell and stepped close to him, as Jaskier stared at him bewildered. Surely he didn’t mean Geralt. But, the barely restrained glee in his eyes, he  _ must _ have meant Geralt. Cahir grabbed Jaskier by his jaw, pulling him close and wrenching it open despite Jaskier’s sudden vigor in trying to get away from him. He revealed a glass vial, and poured the contents down Jaskier’s throat before he had a chance to struggle away. It tasted like sludge, and Jaskier sputtered as Cahir released him.

“You’ll sleep now, long enough for him to get you away and trust he rescued you. Don’t forget our plan, Jaskier. Get the witcher out of my way, and bring the princess back here for me.”

He tried to resist the pull of the draught, but Jaskier’s limbs soon grew heavy and he collapsed against the cold stone wall. Beyond the dungeon, the struggle grew closer. Jaskier stayed conscious just long enough to watch Cahir and the mage disappear into a portal, before Jaskier fell into darkness.

When Jaskier woke again, he found a pair of blue eyes staring intently down at him. He shot up, just narrowly colliding with the young girl hovering above him, and looked around wildly. Something in his abdomen pulled, and he winced, smoothing over one of his wounds with the palm of his hand.

He was surrounded by trees. The sun shone brightly through the leaves, and though the foliage shielded him from the worst of the bright rays, Jaskier’s eyes still twinged as he struggled to adjust. The girl to his right was unfamiliar to him, but as Jaskier examined her, the knot of dread in his stomach grew. If Cahir was right, if Geralt really had saved Jaskier, then this had to be--

“Jaskier,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

Geralt stepped closer, until he was finally illuminated by the sun, and Jaskier could have wept. He had so longed to see Geralt again, but now all he wanted was to run away. His curse would not let him. Instead, he sat, frozen, staring up at the man who was simultaneously the only and the last person Jaskier wanted to see. To his mortification, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

“Geralt, you have to--I can’t--” Jaskier tried feebly, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t tell Geralt about Cahir’s plan, and what Jaskier had to do. Jaskier tried, though. He tried as hard as he could to push back the blockage in his throat, but all that came out was a high-pitched, keening sound, and Geralt reached out to touch Jaskier’s arm.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Geralt soothed him, or tried to, but Jaskier’s pounding heart would not calm. 

Jaskier watched, stunned, as Geralt looked over his wounds. Several were bandaged, and he removed the dressings that had bled through and applied new ones. Jaskier couldn’t speak, his mouth gone completely dry, as Geralt rubbed a salve into the cuts on his wrists from his shackles.

“You’re Jaskier,” the girl cut in, and Jaskier turned to look at her, feeling a bit sheepish for forgetting about her so quickly. He chalked that up to being in a delicate state. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Jaskier sniffed, trying to quickly pull himself together, and managed a smile. “I am,” he answered, nodding. “And who might you be?”

“I’m… Fiona,” she said, glancing at Geralt. Geralt shook his head, briefly, and she looked back at Jaskier with a small smile. “I mean Cirilla. But you can call me Ciri.”

Jaskier nodded, though his smile faded into a grimace. This was who they were after, who Jaskier was to deliver right into the jaws of the monster. Jaskier’s heart was leaden in his chest as he catalogued her face. She looked so much like Pavetta, and as a result this child felt so familiar to Jaskier. She felt dear to him, and Jaskier couldn’t betray her. He had to get out of this. He had to fix this.

Jaskier wheeled on Geralt, snatching his wrist away from the witcher’s nimble fingers, and cradling it against his chest instead.

“Geralt, you have to go--you have to leave, now. Leave me behind,” Jaskier insisted, his eyes filling with unbidden tears.

“Jaskier, no,” Geralt answered, shaking his head as his eyes furrowed. “I’m not going to just leave you again. Not without--Not after--”

He cut himself off, abruptly standing. Geralt’s gaze fell on Cirilla for a moment before he looked back at Jaskier, and bent down to pull Jaskier to his feet. Jaskier went willingly, though once he stood steadily, he pushed Geralt away.

“No, I don’t--” Jaskier tried, but it was getting harder to speak. He couldn’t find a way to even  _ dance _ around the truth, around what Cahir had forbidden him to tell Geralt. He also couldn’t find the words to convince  _ Geralt _ to leave him. “I don’t want--”

“We--We need to go to town. We’re far enough away, we’ll be safe there, and we can get you a healer.” Geralt held out a hand for Ciri, and pulled her up as well. Jaskier looked between the two, shaking his head, but no words would come out. “We can talk there.”

Geralt reached for Jaskier’s hand, but Jaskier snatched it away again. He tried to walk away from Geralt, but all Jaskier succeeded in doing was stumbling wildly, pacing back and forth as if he had gone mad or was having a conniption of some kind. Geralt’s features knitted together, looking so guilty, and every time he chanced a step forward, Jaskier let out a high pitched noise, so anguished and panicked even Jaskier didn’t know how it could have come from his own body.

Cirilla looked terrified, but still Jaskier couldn’t stop. His body wouldn’t let him run away and put as much distance between them, but still he tried. It was like he was back in that forest with Geralt so long ago, his traitorous body conflicting with his own mind, and he was powerless.

“Jaskier, you need to calm down,” Geralt said, stepping forward slowly, his hands out before him. Jaskier tried to get away from him to no avail, and felt hot tears stream down his face. His whole body hurt, and he could feel the fight leaving him. “You’re panicking, but we have to keep moving.”

Geralt stepped closer, and Jaskier tried to shove him away, but Geralt did not yield. Instead, he swooped down and picked Jaskier up, slinging him over his shoulder. Jaskier thrashed, trying to dislodge himself, and finally stopped when he pulled at a wound hard enough to make himself gasp.

“Geralt, I don’t want to go! You need to leave me here. I have to--” The words caught in his throat again and he let out a frustrated groan. Jaskier looked up and saw Ciri staring at him, her eyes wide. She was following them now, as Geralt stomped his way through the forest, but she kept a safe distance between them, as if she was afraid Jaskier would swing at  _ her _ . “Ciri, please, tell him. Tell him to leave me.”

Ciri shook her head. “We’re trying to help you. Why are you fighting him?” she asked.

Jaskier slumped, all the fight finally gone, and he pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. “Geralt,  _ please _ . For once in your life, just listen to me.”

Geralt shook his head. “I can’t, Jaskier. I have to make sure you’re safe. And then I’ll--I’ll go however far you tell me to. Just let me get you safe, first.”

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed. The indignity of this all was truly disheartening. He had no choice in Cahir’s plan, and now he had to go wherever Geralt moved him. For all the times Jaskier had followed after the witcher as he was told, repeatedly, to get lost, and now the tables had finally turned. Of course Geralt had to be a contrarian bastard.

“You sure call a lot of shots,” Jaskier spat, though his ferocity was greatly diminished by the fact that he was, more or less, having this conversation with Geralt’s ass. “ _ Now _ you want to stay with me? You’ve finally finished running away, after evading me in city after city? What, did you hear me coming? Smell me? And you just  _ ran off _ . But now that it’s  _ your _ idea, oh, Jaskier can stay! Even if Jaskier doesn’t want to! All that matters is what  _ Geralt _ wants!”

Geralt sighed, but he kept marching on. He didn’t even bother to give Jaskier any answers. Jaskier tried, with great effort, to needle Geralt into some sort of response, but his walls were back up. No matter what tactic Jaskier used, Geralt would not be moved.

“You’re very angry,” Ciri finally chimed in, after Jaskier had gone on a particularly poetic tirade about the not-so-pure speculated lineage of Geralt’s mother.

It took a considerable amount of effort for Jaskier to raise himself enough to look Ciri in the eye. She looked less terrified now, at least, but no less interested. Her head was tilted just slightly and her eyebrows sat high on her face.

“Well,” Jaskier said, giving in to gravity--and his aching, not-at-all-healed wounds from being  _ beaten _ for days--and allowed himself to flop back against Geralt’s body. “There’s very little dignity in being thrown like a sack of potatoes over someone’s shoulder and carted off to wherever  _ they _ want you to go.”

“I have to make sure you’re safe, Jaskier,” Geralt finally chimed in. Jaskier could have hit him, if he’d had better leverage.

“Did we all forget the fact that I’ve been injured? In more ways than one?” Jaskier rolled his eyes, to the benefit of no one but himself.

“Your worst injuries are on your back and legs. I could carry you bridal style, or make you ride Roach, but those options would hurt more.”

“You  _ could _ let me walk.”

“You’d run,” Geralt said, with a great deal of finality. 

“Haven’t I earned that? Haven’t I earned the chance to make my  _ own _ decisions about where I go in regards to you?” Jaskier spat back.

Geralt was quiet for a long moment. Jaskier was sure he wouldn’t respond at all, when Geralt softly uttered, “I’m sorry, Jaskier. Let me be selfish a little longer.” So softly Jaskier almost didn’t hear him.

Jaskier didn’t struggle again until they made their way to a town. Which town, Jaskier had no idea. He struggled anyway, with enough ferocity that Geralt had to wrap both arms around his legs to keep Jaskier from kicking the people they passed by.

“Let me  _ go _ ! We’re in town, I can find the healer on my own!” Jaskier insisted. Geralt ignored him, and instead negotiated with an innkeeper for a room and to fetch a healer.

When Geralt laid him down in the bed, Jaskier bolted upright and tried to scramble away, but Geralt’s hands caught his wrists with ease, and he forced Jaskier back down. At least he managed to look pained as he did it, though it did nothing to sway Jaskier’s feelings. Instead, he struggled harder, trying ineffectually to escape Geralt’s grip.

“Ciri, stand outside the door,” Geralt finally said, his voice laced with exasperation. Jaskier, foolishly, felt a great deal of pride that at least he was grating on Geralt. “Jaskier and I need to talk”

“No!” Jaskier cried, finally freezing underneath Geralt’s hands. “No, don’t go. Geralt, you have to listen to me,  _ no _ .”

Geralt, eyeing Jaskier warily, let go of Jaskier’s wrists. Jaskier didn’t move, not even a little, as he silently pleaded with Geralt to listen to him, just this  _ once _ . Instead, Jaskier was horrified as Geralt turned to Ciri and nodded once, and she stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

They were alone. They were alone, and Jaskier’s body reacted instantly. Geralt was still turned toward the door, and Jaskier grabbed the dagger Geralt kept hidden in his belt. Jaskier freed the blade and, blessedly, that was as far as he got before Geralt caught on to what he was doing. Geralt’s hand caught Jaskier’s wrist midair, the tip of the blade poised to sink its way into Geralt’s heart.

The shock was clear on Geralt’s face as he found Jaskier’s eyes, and his grip turned almost crushing as Jaskier’s hand continued to press forward with all the strength Jaskier could muster. Geralt could have actually crushed Jaskier’s wrist, but he didn’t. He was still holding back. Jaskier wasn’t even surprised by the tears pricking the corner of his eyes as he, too, tried futilely to fight against his own body.

“Geralt, you have to go,” Jaskier begged. He pressed further still, almost lifting off the bed, and Geralt clambered over him, straddling Jaskier’s hips and pinning him into the mattress. “I can’t--I have to--”

“Jaskier, what are you  _ doing _ ?” Geralt demanded, his face scrunched into a grimace, as if he was actually in pain. 

He caught Jaskier’s other wrist as Jaskier tried to push him away with a hand on Geralt’s face. Despite the pain Jaskier felt and the fact that every muscle in his body cried out for him to  _ stop _ , Jaskier pushed forward. The curse would not let him stop, and he seemed to be growing even stronger. Geralt was beginning to struggle to hold Jaskier’s hands back, their arms shaking with the effort they were both exuding.

He was going to kill Geralt. Jaskier had no control now, could do nothing to stop the way his body twisted and fought against Geralt. The only saving grace was Geralt’s superior strength. But how long would that hold? Jaskier had never been able to move his witcher unless Geralt willed it, and now even Geralt was starting to realize that Jaskier would not be stopped, perhaps  _ could not _ be stopped.

Jaskier’s eyes squeezed shut, pressing hot tears out the corners, and his teeth clenched painfully. He had to stop. He could not, would not, hurt Geralt. No matter how angry or hurt Jaskier was, he could not hurt Geralt. He could not hurt Ciri, who was innocent in all this, and yet would be used as a pawn in whatever political game Nilfgaard was playing. Used like a pawn like Jaskier had been all his life.

“Geralt, Geralt, I can’t,” Jaskier tried, his breath beginning to come in loud gasps as he tried to stop his muscles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to--I have no choice--”

Geralt shook his head. Jaskier’s hips bucked, trying to knock Geralt off, and Geralt’s thighs tightened around him as he struggled to keep his hold.

“I lied to you!” Jaskier cried. “I lied so many times. All the time. I know--I know what Lazuli meant. He wanted me to tell my truth, and I’ve told so many lies, all I tell are lies and half truths. I told you you’re the only one I’m honest with, but it wasn’t true, it was never true.”

His bucking finally prevailed, and Geralt was thrown to the side. Jaskier’s body pressed forward, throwing the witcher more off-balance, until Geralt was stumbling off the bed to the ground. His hands released Jaskier’s wrists as he fell, but Jaskier followed after him, until he was the one straddling Geralt. The hand holding the dagger flung toward Geralt’s neck, and Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s wrist and his forearm, pushing Jaskier’s arm back with as much strength as Geralt could muster. Jaskier’s free arm braced itself on the hilt of the dagger, pressing his inhuman, cursed strength to push the dagger forward.

“Lazuli told me to tell my truth.” Tears fell from Jaskier’s face into Geralt’s hair. He was panicked, breathless, trying to get the words out as quickly as he could. “I love you, Geralt. That’s my truth.  _ I love you _ .”

All fight left Jaskier suddenly, and he collapsed forward for a terrifying second before he caught himself. His fingers unwound from the dagger and it clattered to the floor beside Geralt’s head just a moment before Geralt shoved Jaskier back. Jaskier’s head collided with the post of the bedframe with a loud thunk and Jaskier crumpled against it as Geralt leapt to his feet.

“You tried to--”

Geralt was interrupted by the door flying open. Cirilla stood in the doorway, her eyes open as wide as her mouth as she took in the scene.

“I was--I was downstairs asking after the healer, then I heard fighting and--and-- _ what happened _ ?” Ciri sounded panicked and confused, her eyes fixed on Jaskier.

Jaskier pushed himself up, using the bed frame as support as he stared at his own hands, now moving of their own accord. He had only just gotten to his feet when Geralt turned on his heel and rushed out the room, grabbing Ciri by the wrist and dragging her out of the doorway and, presumably, out of the inn.

Jaskier could only stare dumbly at his hands, then at the dagger on the ground.

“I’m free,” he whispered, though no one was there to hear him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! we made it! this is very bittersweet for me bc while y'all have been on this journey with me for the past about two weeks, i've been working on this fic for, like, idk. 3 months? which is a long time for me haha. i super, super appreciate everyone that has read this and all the comments and kudos and you can't see me but i'm blowing kisses into the wind for you all. thank you to all of you that read this, whether you left a comment or not!
> 
> i am a little excited to stop getting myself out of bed at 630 am for this though. c;

Geralt was ushering Cirilla onto Roach’s back by the time Jaskier made it downstairs. By this point, he was so weak, he was leaning against a post holding the stable roof up, but still Geralt eyed him warily, like he was dangerous. Jaskier supposed he was. He stepped between Jaskier and Ciri, and his fingers stretched out, like he was debating taking his sword.

“Don’t come any closer,” Geralt warned, his voice dangerous. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

Jaskier shook his head helplessly. “Geralt, I would never. Not. Not willingly.”

“You tried to kill me.” Geralt pointed an accusing finger at Jaskier.

He had a flat affect, betraying no emotion, as Geralt had spent so many decades training himself to do. Jaskier, however, had spent decades studying his witcher. The corners of his eyes pinched, just slightly, and his mouth was a hard line. Jaskier couldn’t have physically hurt him, though he had gotten close, but Geralt was wounded all the same.

“I’m sorry--the Nilfgaardians--Geralt, they knew,” Jaskier said. “They knew about my curse. Cahir--their leader--he ordered me to kill you. I couldn’t tell you about it. He told me not to. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You have to know I’d never hurt you.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he searched Jaskier’s face. What he was looking for, Jaskier didn’t know. Geralt took a step closer, his expression turning more wary.

“You were the trap,” Geralt finally said, his shoulders sagging. “The castle--it was so easy to get to you. I was expecting a trap. But nothing came. Because it was you. They used you against me.”

Jaskier nodded. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I tried to tell you. I couldn’t. I tried to get away from you.” He swiped the heel of his hand over his still-wet eyes, then looked up to Cirilla. She still looked so terrified, the poor girl, and was holding onto Roach as if the horse was her only lifeline. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I had no choice, you see. But I’ll never,  _ ever _ do that again.”

Cirilla stared at him for a long moment, then slowly, carefully, nodded her head.

“He still needs a healer,” Ciri said, letting herself down from Roach’s back.

“I don’t think--” Geralt began, but Ciri pushed past him to Jaskier. 

Ciri tugged Jaskier’s arm around her shoulder and eased him off the post. She was struggling, Jaskier could tell, but still she stubbornly turned them both back in the direction of the inn. Ciri probably would have gone the entire way, if Geralt hadn’t come to Jaskier’s other side and shifted Jaskier’s weight onto himself.

The three of them made it back to the inn in silence. Geralt laid Jaskier down on the mattress again, and this time Jaskier went with no fuss. Jaskier heard Geralt kick the dagger out of sight moments before the healer swooped into the room. She fussed over Jaskier’s wounds and Jaskier, begrudgingly, was the best patient she could have asked for, if only because his compliance helped ease the tension in Geralt’s face.

“Apply these salves twice a day,” the healer instructed, pointing to the ceramic pots she had left on the table. “Let him rest, and he should be mobile again in a couple days.”

When the healer left, an awkward silence filled the room. Each of them looked in a different direction. Ciri out the window, Geralt at the door where the healer had just exited, and Jaskier on his own hands sitting in his lap.

“Here,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier looked up just in time to see Geralt hand Ciri something, then nod toward the door. “The next room. I’ll be able to hear you if anything happens.”

Ciri nodded, sparing one last glance at Jaskier before she left the room. The heavy silence continued after she left, and Jaskier felt suffocated by it. He had never much liked silence, but now it felt particularly insidious, after all that had happened.

“Geralt, I’m so--” Jaskier tried, needing to break the tension in the air, but he was cut off as Geralt put up a hand.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He hesitated a moment, then came to the bedside. He sat on the edge with clunky, disjointed movements, and kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke, “I’m so sorry. What I did--and then avoiding you--I was just trying to protect you.”

Jaskier crossed his arms and glared at Geralt. “I don’t need protecting. Especially not  _ that _ sort of protecting. You promised me you would never.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” Geralt finally looked up, and he looked so  _ earnest _ . As if he had never meant anything more in his life. “When I heard they had you--” He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “I came as fast as I could. I couldn’t imagine--”

“It’s fine, Geralt. It just. It doesn’t matter.” Jaskier looked away from him, staring instead at the pots of salve. It was safer that way. “I’m safe now. So. You and Ciri can go.”

“We’ll stay until you’re healed.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I don’t need your charity, Geralt. I can handle myself just fine while I heal. I’ll only slow you two down, and I don’t want to force you to stay out of some misguided feelings of guilt. I forgive you. We can move on. You don’t have to pretend to want me around.”

He was so focused on stubbornly  _ not _ looking at Geralt, that Jaskier jumped when Geralt’s fingers cupped Jaskier’s jaw. He tilted Jaskier’s chin back to look at Geralt, then pressed forward to smooth his thumb along Jaskier’s cheekbone.

“Being without you this last year has been agony, Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice soft. He shifted, scooting closer to Jaskier, and cupping his face between both hands. “I missed you every single second. I regretted what I did every single second.”

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out an audible breath. His heart pounded in his chest and he leaned into Geralt’s embrace. He could stay in this moment forever.

“So take me with you,” Jaskier breathed.

Now, Geralt sounded regretful. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous. I want to, more than anything. But Nilfgaard is after us, and I won’t put you in harm's way. Not again.”

Jaskier opened his eyes again, furrowing his eyebrows at Geralt. “That makes no sense, Geralt. Nilfgaard already got me once. You missed me. I missed you. I don’t know of any safer place than with you.” His hands covered Geralt’s and he pushed himself up to sit on his knees. “I have to go. You have to take me. We can’t--I couldn’t stand to be parted from you again. Not now that I have you here.”

“Don’t--you can’t do this.” Geralt shook his head, thumbing at Jaskier’s cheeks again. “I need you to stay here.”

Geralt looked devastated. His face was pinched as if he was in physical pain and he held Jaskier’s face as if Jaskier was the most precious thing in the world. And still, he did not seem swayed by Jaskier’s words. That would not do. This time, Jaskier was going to win this fight.

“Then order me.”

Geralt blinked. “What?” he asked.

“Order me. Tell me to stay away from you. I will not listen to your suggestions, Geralt of Rivia. If you want me to stay, then you have to tell me to stay.”

“Jaskier, I’m not going to do that to you,” Geralt said, glaring now. “I won’t do that again.”

“Do it. If you want to keep me safe so badly, then fucking  _ do it _ . Order me to stay.” Jaskier’s voice was firm, brokering no argument. He had learned from the best, after all. 

Geralt looked torn. He grimaced, and though he started by shaking his head, as he took in Jaskier’s set jaw and narrowed eyes, he wavered. Geralt was going to lose this one, and they both knew it now.

“Jaskier, stay here. Don’t follow us,” Geralt finally managed, each word taking a great deal of effort. 

Jaskier pulled Geralt’s hands away from his face and climbed forward on his knees. He swung a leg over Geralt’s lap, straddling him, and now he took Geralt’s face in his hands. Geralt stared up at him, perplexed, and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier leaned in, dipping his head and stopping just a hair's-breadth away from kissing Geralt.

“No,” Jaskier breathed against Geralt’s lips. “I will not. I go where you go from now on.”

Geralt huffed into Jaskier’s mouth, and his arms tightened around Jaskier. “But, the curse?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I told my truth. I broke it. I love you, Geralt. I am now, and have always been, yours. And I will not let you cast me aside, never again.”

Jaskier felt drunk on this new power. He was free. Geralt’s order had not settled into him like every other order before it had. For the first time in his life, Jaskier was his own person, free to go wherever he wanted, free to say no whenever he cared to.

“You love me,” Geralt said, and Jaskier shivered as Geralt’s thumb trailed over his skin, just above the hem of Jaskier’s trousers. He had missed this entirely too much. “I love you. I love you, too, and I want you safe, even if I’ve done a terrible job of showing that.”

Jaskier’s fingers carded through Geralt’s hair and Geralt tilted his head to capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss, but Jaskier pulled away. He pulled away far enough to see the questioning quirk of Geralt’s eyebrows. The amber of his eyes.

“You’ll make it up to me. I know you will. Now, ask me to come with you.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, a small smile creeping across his lips. They drew together again, until their lips just barely touched. For a long moment, that was all they did. They breathed together, Jaskier’s eyes closed as he  _ felt _ this moment.

“Jaskier, will you come to Kaer Morhen with me?” Geralt whispered.

For the first time, Jaskier had a choice. He had his witcher again. He had his freedom. No one could imprison him or bend his will to their own, ever again. He was his own man, rather than a pawn in anyone else’s game. 

Jaskier captured Geralt’s lips in a long, slow kiss, leaving them breathless and wanting more. Geralt leaned Jaskier back on the bed, hovering over Jaskier’s body to keep them close, but let Jaskier rest. Geralt’s hands slipped up Jaskier’s sides, soft but steady, like he was never letting Jaskier go again. Jaskier held Geralt’s face and chased his mouth, knowing, finally, that Geralt was his, and he was Geralt’s. For once, it wasn’t a lie, or a half-truth, or a secret. It was honest, and open, and out there. It was love.

“Yes.” Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s brow. “I go where you go. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love if you hung out with me on tumblr or twitter (though i am still learning how to effectively use twitter): @lesdemonium
> 
> & though i don't think it's necessarily wise to already open myself up to comparison, i wanted to plug the _fabulous_ fic with the same ella enchanted premise. [Comply by QueenOfAllCorgis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23112499/chapters/55300471)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You made me the Hopeless Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464337) by [AnythingEver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingEver/pseuds/AnythingEver)




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